127 
Trumpet-Flower. — £ Separation .’ 
To the separated who love, there are a thousand tongues, unheard 
by other ears, that whisper of the absent; and the low melodies of 
Nature, breathed upon the soul, speak to it of sympathy with the 
unseen but ever present object of its adoration. 
’T is past ! and we no more may meet, 
For years, — perhaps, forever; 
But Memory’s records, sad and sweet, 
Can lose their influence, never. 
The treasured word — the cherished tone — 
The glance so dear — so kind — 
The thoughts, exchanged with thee alone, 
Can ne’er oblivion find. 
