I saw him as he went
With merry voice and eye.
I met him when he came
Back, tired but the same —
The same clear voice, bright eye,
Merry laugh, quick reply.
And now, if I but look
Unnoting at a book,
Or from the window stare
At dark woods newly bare,
I see that shining eye,
The same as when he went:
— But whose is the low sigh,
The cold shade o'er me bent?