Wandering aimlessly everywhere,
  Upstairs and downstairs, from room into room,
  Searching for nothing—­for nothing is there,
  Only the changeless impregnable gloom.

  Stifled within, the cool gardens I seek;—­
  Like poor human souls the flowers all die;
  Even the birds are refusing to speak,
  Crush’d by the weight of a leaden-gray sky.

  Is this the whole of it? is this the end? 
  Life finish’d off by a heartless Amen? 
  When will you write to me? when will you send? 
  When shall I follow you, Harry?—­Ah when?

  I wander’d far from my hateful abode;
  The hour was becoming a little late;
  Just there a gate open’d into a road,
  And a boy was leaning upon the gate.

  Faithful old Rover, who follow’d me out,
  Went perfectly frantic beholding this boy,
  Sniff’d at his coat, leaping wildly about,
  And danced like a dog that dances for joy.

  He was a stripling both slender and tall
  (My idle eyes vacantly take the view),
  His coat was too large, or he was too small,
  His nose was a snub, and his eyes were blue. 
  Angry I felt to see Rover rejoice,
  But he suddenly stopp’d, began to quake,
  And howl’d in a most deplorable voice,
  As if his dog-heart was ready to break.

Then the boy, stooping down, something slipp’d in
(The something was little and square and white)
Between the steel collar and hairy skin,
Saw that I saw it, and so took to flight.

Wagging his tail, a hurrah in each beat,
Expanding his chest with a gesture grand,
Rover ran back to crouch down at my feet,
Licking my eager incredulous hand.

* * * * *

It was in my hands—­I tore it apart,
This letter that Harry had writ to me;
My head turn’d giddy, and so did my heart,
And turn’d my eyes blind that I could not see.

O wicked blind eyes, will you not be clear? 
Have I not told you ’tis written by him? 
’Tis a piece of Heaven I am holding here,
And my horrible earthly eyes are dim!

  The cruel letters run out and run in,
  Fluttering, tottering, stammering by,
  Mixing together like threads that you spin,
  Flying apart, as birds recklessly fly.

  Is it for years that I helplessly stand,
  While tremulous lights into shadows flit,
  With a piece of Heaven held in my hand,
  Which is mine—­and I cannot enter it!

  At last—­O my wonderful dear at last! 
  Thou always comest, howe’er it is—­
  The senseless signs into symmetry pass’d,
  For a few short seconds it must be bliss!

  And so standing there in the twilight’s fall
  (What happen’d is nothing but what must be)
  I read the first words that ever at all
  My Harry (God bless him!) has written me.