Page:Flower-de-Luce.djvu/32

 Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream Dimly my thought defines; I only see—a dream within a dream— The hill-top hearsed with pines.

I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own.

There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told.