O month of many memories, good-bye!
Ghosts throng your moon-bathed nights, and sultry days;
They gather round me in some silent place.
Their breath is in the roses, and their cry
In songs of birds that dare the sunlit sky;
They meet me in the twilight face to face.
And when I walk through lone, night-cover'd ways.
In sadly murmuring winds I hear them sigh;
Then am I as a man who sees in dreams
Some dead, beloved face, and seeing, deems
The past a dream, the dream reality!
But oh! the bitter waking, when, alas!
He knows the mocking dream for what it was,
And gazes on a new day, hopelessly.