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APART.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

SWEET eyes of blue, shine down beside

The lonely path I tread;

With you was life beatified . . .

But here the leaves are dead.

The leaves are dead, the trees are bare

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And haggard with the cold:

A murmur of gray sea everywhere -

A dash of sunset gold -

A lurid pallor lengthening thro'

The outmost verge of sight,

And wailing winds and damp sea-dew, -

So falls the autumn night.

Ah! wisht-for hand! I miss thy touch

Of healing on my pain.

The tide comes in: I know that such

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