So Well I Knew Your Habits And Your Ways, That Like A Picture Painted On The Skies, At The Sweet Closing Of The Summer Days, You Stand Before My Eyes. I See You On The Old Verandah There, While Slow The Shadows Of The Twilight Fall, I See The Very Carving On The Chair You Tilt Against The Wall. The West Grows Dim. The Faithful Evening Star Comes Out And Sheds Its Tender Patient Beam. I Almost Catch The Scent Of Your Cigar, As You Sit There And Dream. But Dream Of What? I Know Your Outward Life - Your Ways, Your Habits; Know They Have Not Changed. But Has One Thought Of Me Survived The Strife Since We Two Were Estranged? I Know Not Of The Workings Of Your Heart; And Yet I Sometimes Make Myself Believe That I Perchance Do Hold Some Little Part Of Reveries At Eve. I Think You Could Not Wholly Put Away The Memories Of A Past That Held So Much. As Birds Fly Homeward At The Close Of Day, A Word, A Kiss, A Touch, Must Sometimes Come And Nestle In Your Breast And Murmur To You Of The Long Ago. Oh Do They Stir You With A Vague Unrest? What Would I Give To Know!