Morns Like These We Parted; Noons Like These She Rose, Fluttering First, Then Firmer, To Her Fair Repose. Never Did She Lisp It, And 'T Was Not For Me; She Was Mute From Transport, I, From Agony! Till The Evening, Nearing, One The Shutters Drew -- Quick! A Sharper Rustling! And This Linnet Flew!