Noon
I knew the paper on which I was writing : it was the half-leaf of a letter well-remembered . The letter itself was not there : it was within the folds of my pocket-book ; but there was writing on the fly-leaf , and on both faces of it . On one side were those cherished verses , whose sweet simple strain , still vibrating upon the chords of my heart , I can not help repeating : `` I think of thee , when Morning springs From sleep , with plumage bathed in dew , And like a young bird lifts her wings Of gladness on the welkin blue . And when at Noon the breath of love O'er flower and stream is wandering free , And sent in music from the grove , I think of thee -- I think of thee ! `` I think of thee , when soft and wide The Evening spreads her robe of light ; And , like a young and timid bride , Sits blushing in the arms of night . And when the moon 's sweet crescent springs In light o'er heaven 's deep waveless sea ; And stars are forth like blessed things , I think of thee -- I think of thee ! '' `` O sir !