To Lady Wemyss
The boy will come no more
Although I listen and long;
The sound of his foot on the floor
Was like an old song.

His foot had the music in it,
And now the music's dumb --
Like the song of the lark or linnet
Glad that Spring's come.

There's nothing stirring at all, --
'Tis quiet all by yourself, --
But a wee mouse in the wall,
The clock ticks on the shelf.

Like the song of the lark or linnet,
That's singing early and soon,
His foot had the music in it
Like an old tune.