8  A TYDIL S POEMS.



Do you wonder that at twilight
  Always by my cottage door
          I am seated
          You've repeated
  Oft'ner still those tunes of yore;
And I love them, love your scanning
And your noisy tree-top planning;
Though you struggle with a rhyme,
In due season comes the chime.

Oft I fancy when your neighbors,
  In some secret thicket hid,
          Are debating,
          Underrating
  What that little maiden did,
That above their clamsrous singing
I can hear your accents ringing,
Like a voice that must defend
From abuse some time-loved friend.

Though the nightingale and swallow
  Through the poet's measures sing,
          No reflection
          Of dejection
  Petrifies or palls your wing.
In the calm and holy moonlight,
On and on with hours of midnight,
In the darkness, in the rain,
Still you whisper your refrain.

Dream I not of fame or fortune,
  Only this I inward crave,
          Sweet assurance,
          Long endurance,
  Of a love beyond the grave.
Should my songs die out and perish,
You'll my name repeat and cherish;
Though all trace is lost of me,
Still you'll call from tree to tree,



KATYDID.



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