Here, in the north, the golden-rod Covers each hill-side, Margaret; I love it; but my dreams still set Toward the rare garden which we trod Together on that long June night. There blew the jasmine sweet; there sang The mocking-bird; there plaintively rang (As faded from the world day's light) The whip-poor-will's half-human cry. Would I could see once more that home! Would I could clasp -- no more to roam -- Thy fair hands, Margaret! As fly The birds of summer south, so wing My thoughts their flight toward thee. Though land And sea I cross, thou hold'st a wand Which to thy side my spirit can bring. |