Where the roses used to bloom,

How they talked beside the pavement

In low whispers of perfume,

Or climbed up beside the window

To look in my little room.

I am thinking of the door-way

Where the vine I used to train,

That snowed down its flaky petals

With a pleasant summer rain;

Where I used to sit and listen

To the old mill’s low refrain.

I’m thinking of the sunflower, too,

That towered above the gate;

Of the friends who called me hither

When the day was cool and late.

Ah! those hours seem so distant

I am thinking of the grape-vine

Where the crippled robin fed,

How he lingered there each morning

’Till fresh crumbs for him were spread.

Is he feeding there this summer

From a stranger’s hand, instead?

I am thinking of the children

Who crept to the little yard,

Begging me to grant permission

That they play upon the sward.

Could I bar them from the entry?

Thus might Heaven me discard.

I am thinking of a morning

That wrung from my heart a sigh,

When I kissed warm lips that trembled,

With a tear-drop in my eye;

While I closed our cottage windows

And pronounced the word—good-bye.