"You being gone, how should I find your mate For gentle thought and brave So once I sang; but soon those vivid wings Were spread in flight beyond my little gate.
"How should the forest sat its music free Lacking the wood-thrush, with his silver call?"—I asked: but now on eager ears may fall No single note of that spent melody.
For you are gone; and neither prayer nor art.
Tha laughter of your presence may restore.
But yet your spell is with mo as afore; Your music conquers silence in my heart.
Marion Covrnovy Sura.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.