Like
the low warblings of a leaf-hid bird,
Thy voice came to me through the screening trees,
Singing the simplest, long-known melodies;
I had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard
And blessed thee for each clearly-carolled
word;
I longed to thank thee, and my heart would frame
Mary or Ruth, some sisterly sweet name
For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred;
I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes
Were blue and downcast, and methought large tears,
Unknown to thee, up to their lids must rise,
With half-sad memories of other years,
As to thyself alone thou sangest o'er
Words that to childhood seemed to say, "No more!"
