’Tis thirteen years; once more I press
  The turf that silences the lane;
I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and—­ah, yes,
  I hear,—­“Auf wiedersehen!”

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! 
  The English words had seemed too fain,
But these—­they drew us heart to heart,
Yet held us tenderly apart;
  She said,—­“Auf wiedersehen!”

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

PALINODE.

     AUTUMN.

Still thirteen years:  ’t is autumn now
  On field and hill, in heart and brain;
The naked trees at evening sough;
The leaf to the forsaken bough
  Sighs not,—­“Auf wiedersehen!”

Two watched yon oriole’s pendent dome,
  That now is void, and dank with rain,
And one,—­oh, hope more frail than foam! 
The bird to his deserted home
  Sings not,—­“Auf wiedersehen!”

The loath gate swings with rusty creak;
  Once, parting there, we played at pain;
There came a parting, when the weak
And fading lips essayed to speak
  Vainly,—­“Auf wiedersehen!”

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,
  Though thou in outer dark remain;
One sweet sad voice ennobles death,
And still, for eighteen centuries saith
  Softly,—­“Auf wiedersehen!”

If earth another grave must bear,
  Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain,
And something whispers my despair,
That, from an orient chamber there,
  Floats down,—­“Auf wiedersehen!”

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

FAREWELL!—­BUT WHENEVER.

Farewell!—­but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower. 
Then think of the friend that once welcomed it too. 
And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return—­not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain—­
But he ne’er can forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him while lingering with you!

And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where’er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o’er with your smiles—­
Too blest if it tell me that, ’mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice has murmured, “I wish he were here!”

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features which joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! 
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled—­
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.