  ONCE more I walk mid summer days, as one Returning to the place where first he met The face that he till death may not forget; I know the scent of roses just begun, And how at evening and at morn the sun Falls on the places that remember yet What feet last year within their bounds were set, And what sweet things were said and dreamt and done. The sultry silence of the summer night Recalls to me the loved voice far away; Oh, surely I shall see some early day, In places that last year with love were bright, The face of her I love, and hear the low, Sweet troubled music of the voice I know. |
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