No more summer for Molly and me;
There is snow on the tree,
And the blackbirds plump large as the rooks are, almost,
And the water is hard
Where they used to dip bills at the dawn ere her figure was lost
To these coasts, now my prison close-barred.
No more planting by Molly and me
Where the beds used to be
Of sweet-william; no training the clambering rose
By the framework of fir
Now bowering the pathway, whereon it swings gaily and blows
As if calling commendment from her.
No more jauntings by Molly and me
To the town by the sea,
Or along over Whitesheet to Wynyard’s green Gap,
Catching Montacute Crest
To the right against Sedgmoor, and Corton-Hill’s far-distant cap,
And Pilsdon and Lewsdon to west.
No more singing by Molly to me
In the evenings when she
Was in mood and in voice, and the candles were lit,
And past the porch-quoin
The rays would spring out on the laurels; and dumbledores hit
On the pane, as if wishing to join.
Where, then, is Molly, who’s no more with me?
–As I stand on this lea,
Thinking thus, there’s a many-flamed star in the air,
That tosses a sign
That her glance is regarding its face from her home, so that there
Her eyes may have meetings with mine.