Sick and sad, propped among pillows, she sits at her window.

‘ Though the dog-tooth violet come

With April showers,

And the wild-bees’ music hum

About the flowers,

We shall never wend as when

Love laughed leading us from men

Over violet vale and glen,

Where the bob-white piped for hours,

And we heard the rain-crow's drum.

Now November heavens are gray;

Autumn kills

Every joy — like leaves of May

In the rills.—

Still I sit and lean and listen

To a voice that has arisen

In my heart — with eyes that glisten

Looking at the happy hills

Fading dark-blue far away.