Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/276

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She often comes to meet me: will she come, And stand just in the corner of the lane? She is my Home! Oh! will she come again, And make me, by her coming, nearer home?

’Twas thus in early days we used to meet. Yes!—that small speck has grown a flutt’ring dress, While the broad space between is growing less,— My busy eyes and heart outstrip my feet.

And while my heart and eyes my steps outrun, My thoughts o’erleap the present, and my fears Say, “will it be thus too in coming years, When evening falls and the day’s work is done?

Will she still wander with me in the wood, Still meet me in the corner of the lane? Or shall I have to look for her in vain, And live alone on Memory’s meagre food?”