All this of two words in a certificate!

ANDENKEN.

  I.

  Through the silent streets of the city,
  In the night’s unbusy noon,
  Up and down in the pallor
  Of the languid summer moon,

  I wander and think of the village,
  And the house in the maple-gloom,
  And the porch with the honeysuckles
  And the sweet-brier all abloom.

  My soul is sick with the fragrance
  Of the dewy sweet-brier’s breath: 
  Oh, darling! the house is empty,
  And lonesomer than death!

  If I call, no one will answer;
  If I knock, no one will come;—­
  The feet are at rest forever,
  And the lips are cold and dumb.

  The summer moon is shining
  So wan and large and still,
  And the weary dead are sleeping
  In the graveyard under the hill.

  II.

  We looked at the wide, white circle
  Around the autumn moon,
  And talked of the change of weather,—­
  It would rain, to-morrow, or soon.

  And the rain came on the morrow,
  And beat the dying leaves
  From the shuddering boughs of the maples
  Into the flooded eaves.

  The clouds wept out their sorrow;
  But in my heart the tears
  Are bitter for want of weeping,
  In all these autumn years.

  III.

  It is sweet to lie awake musing
  On all she has said and done,
  To dwell on the words she uttered,
  To feast on the smiles I won,

  To think with what passion at parting
  She gave me my kisses again,—­
  Dear adieux, and tears and caresses,—­
  Oh, love! was it joy or pain?

  To brood, with a foolish rapture,
  On the thought that it must be
  My darling this moment is waking
  With tenderest thoughts of me!

  O sleep I are thy dreams any sweeter? 
  I linger before thy gate: 
  We must enter at it together,
  And my love is loath and late.

  IV.

  The bobolink sings in the meadow,
  The wren in the cherry-tree: 
  Come hither, thou little maiden,
  And sit upon my knee;

  And I will tell thee a story
  I read in a book of rhyme;—­
  I will but feign that it happened
  To me, one summer-time,

  When we walked through the meadow,
  And she and I were young;—­
  The story is old and weary
  With being said and sung.

  The story is old and weary;—­
  Ah, child! is it known to thee? 
  Who was it that last night kissed thee
  Under the cherry-tree?

  V.

  Like a bird of evil presage,
  To the lonely house on the shore
  Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck,
  And shrieked at the bolted door,

  And flapped its wings in the gables,
  And shouted the well-known names,
  And buffeted the windows
  Afeard in their shuddering frames.