Of drowsiness and peace and rest until

The barque glides softly into sleep’s domain;

So I, whose empty way leads wandering

Between high garden-walls that hide the sun,

Hear sometimes on the breeze a simple strain

Of an old song you once were wont to sing—

And then forgetting all, I seem as one

Who listens spell-bound to the summer rain.

Impression

A little stone o’ercrept with moss,

And red wild roses flaunting by,

A wistful breeze that seems to sigh

Where the tall grasses toss.

To sigh for one who went away,

Thus it is writ upon the stone—

Nothing can ever make atone

And tears shall fall for aye.

Oh, irony of human vow,

Even the stone is crumbling too,

And tears,—none save the evening dew,

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