Chapter X

"Ah! now the orchard's leaves are sear,
Drip not with starlight-litten dew;
Green-drowned no moon-bright fruit hangs here;
Dead, dead your long, white lilies too--
And you, Allita, where are you!"

Then comes her dim touch, faintly warm;
Cool hair sense on my feverish cheek;
Dim eyes at mine deep with some charm,--
So gray! so gray! and I am weak
Weak with wild tears and can not speak.

I am as one who walks with dreams:
Sees as in youth his father's home;
Hears from his native mountain-streams
Far music of continual foam.

DEAD AND GONE.

I

I wot well o' his going
To think in flowers fair;--
His a right kind heart, my dear,
To give the grass such hair.

II.

I wot well o' his lying
Such nights out in the cold,--
To list the cricket's crick, my sweet,
To see the glow-worm's gold.

III.

An mine eyes be laughterful,
Well may they laugh, I trow,--
Since two dead eyes a yesternight
Gazed in them sad enow.