gh smiling when we parted,--
Where love to death lay sick.

Now is the Winter waited,
The tyrant hoar and old,
With death and hunger mated,
Who counts his crimes like gold.--
Once more before forever
We part--once more, then never--
Once more before we sever
Must I his face behold!

4

_She takes up a book and reads._

What little things are those
That hold our happiness!
A smile, a glance, a rose
Dropped from her hair or dress;
A word, a look, a touch,--
These are so much, so much.

An air we can't forget;
A sunset's gold that gleams;
A spray of migonette,
Will fill the soul with dreams
More than all history says,
Or romance of old days.

For of the human heart,
Not brain, is memory;
These things it makes a part
Of its own entity;
The joys, the pains whereof
Are the very food of love.

5

_She lays down the book._

How true! how true!--but words are weak
In sympathy they give the soul,
To music--music, that can speak
All the heart's pain and dole;
Still making us remember most
The love we've lost, the love we've lost.

So weary am I, and so fain
To see his face, to feel his kiss
Thrill rapture through my soul again,
There is no hell like this.--
Ah, God! my God, were it not best
To give me rest, to give me rest?

6

_She writes to him to come to her._

Dead lie the dreams we cherished,
The dreams we loved so well;
Like forest leaves they perished,
Like autumn leaves they fell.
Alas! that dreams so soon should pass!
Alas! Alas!

The stream lies bleak and arid
That once went singing on;
The flowers once that varied
Its banks are dead and gone:
Where these were once are thorns and thirst--
The place is curst.

Come to me; I am lonely:
Forgive what you have heard.--
Come to me; if for only
One last sad parting word:
For one last word before the pall
Falls over all.

The day and hour are suited
For what I'd say to you
Of love that I uprooted--
But I have suffered too!
Come to me; I would say good-by
Before I die.

7

_The wind rises; the trees are agitated._

Woods, that beat the wind with frantic
Gestures and drop darkly 'round
Acorns gnarled and leaves that antic
Wildly on the rustling ground!

Is it tragic grief that saddens
Through your souls this autumn day?
Or the j