'TIS evening, and the summer has put on
Her richest dress, her way with flowers is strewed,
Beauty and music dwell in every wood,
And bower and meadow, hill and valley lone;
A gentle shower is o'er, the earth has wept
Its fragrance into freshness. In this hour,—
When in a flood of glory all is dipped,
By the soft influence of a higher power,—
My spirit leaves its prison-house, and flies
Towards the sweet haunts of thy pleasant home,
Where, lover-like, thy river loves to roam;—
'Tis there I see thee with my mental eyes,
And hold communion with thee day by day,
Though now we never meet, and haply never may.