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 Of his white spirit; here the flame Of Love's own life burned holily On the moorland; his birth-name The heather gave him; home to die Amid the heath he journeyed; here His baby form, that was so dear, The lovely form we loved so well, Lies under the heather-bell.

I think my ghost will haunt the place, Even when I behold thy face Glassed in some celestial lake,— I love it so for thy dear sake. But ah! if we were only sure! Were only seeing thee secure, Even afar off, now and then, I were the happiest of men!

Aspens whisper in grey air, Whisper as they whispered when, Playing among them blithe and fair, He drew my soul from a dark den Of dismal shadows with his song; Whisper like a gentle throng Of spirits murmuring "Rejoice!" To me, who faint for his dear voice, Wandering ever in the wild Till I find my little child,