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 If only somewhere at the journey's end

Friend might again behold the face of friend!

Very forgetful of us grow the dead,

That never yet a word or whisper send.

Love, the fair day is drawing to its close,

The stars are rising, and a soft wind blows,

The gates of heaven are opening in a dream—

The nightingale sings to the sleeping rose.

Shadows, and dew, and silence, and the stars—

I wonder, love, what is behind those bars

Of twinkling silver—is there aught behind?—

Venus and Jupiter, Sirius and Mars;

Aldebaran and the soft Pleiades,

Orion ploughing the ethereal seas;—

Which are the stars, my love, and which your eyes?

And O the nightingale in yonder trees!