Where the rich sunset burns;
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring,
A dream to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times--
A sorrowful delight!
The melody of distant chimes;
The sound of waves by night;
The wind that with so many a tone
Some cord within can thrill;
These may have language all thine own,
To _him_ a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!
If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,
And watched through sickness by thy bed,
Call _his_ a kindred heart.

But for those bonds, all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bend;
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,--