For she hath meanings, though unseen;
In wisdom and in love,
She spreads her placid sheets of green,
Or knits the boughs above.

In wood and wold, in field and lane,
She walks, a blameless Muse;
Still busy something to restrain,
And something to infuse.

Two years ago, this day, he died;
In silence to the grave he stole;
To many friends their joy and pride,—
To me the brother of my soul.

Then died their hopes and were not seen,
But still our love, it seems to me,
Survives, though something hangs between,—
A haze—a dim perplexity!