Will ever the dear days come back again,
         Those days of June, when lilacs were in bloom,
         And bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloom
         Of leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain?
I know not; but a presence will remain
         Forever and forever in this room,
         Formless, diffused in air, like a perfume,—
         A phantom of the heart, and not the brain.
Delicious days! when every spoken word
         Was like a foot-fall nearer and more near,
         And a mysterious knocking at the gate
Of the heart's secret places, and we heard
         In the sweet tumult of delight and fear
         A voice that whispered, "Open, I cannot wait!"