II.

Yes, many a story of past hours I read in these dear withered flowers, And once again I seem to be Lying beneath the old oak tree, And looking up into the sky, Through thick leaves rifted fitfully, Lulled by the rustling of the vine, Or the faint low of far-off kine; And once again I seem To watch the whirling bubbles flee, Through shade and gleam alternately, Down the vine-bowered stream; Or 'neath the odorous linden trees, When summer twilight lingers long, To hear the flowing of the breeze And unseen insects' slumberous song, That mingle into one and seem Like dim murmurs of a dream; Fair faces, too, I seem to see, Smiling from pleasant eyes at me, And voices sweet I hear, That, like remembered melody, Flow through my spirit's ear.