  Ah, dear! how memory stirs, Of meadows and soft-voiced thrushes Of winds that sang amid firs, Or piped on the cool, damp rushes. Of twilights and early dawns, And times when the earth is fairest; Of gardens with dewy lawns, And flowers when their scent is rarest. Of noontide and humming bees, That gather the love of roses; Of night-time and sighing trees, And clouds where the moon reposes. And, dearest,—of just we two, Alone in this world of splendour, Where everything lived for you, In glorious, sweet surrender. |
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