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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!
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