Reach up and pluck a branch, and give it me,
That I may hang it in my Northern room,
That I may find it there, and wake and see
—Not you! not you!—dead leaves and wintry gloom.
O senseless olives, wherefore should I take
Your leaves to balm a heart that can but ache?
Why should I take you hence, that can but show
How much is left behind? I do not know.
_Apprehension._
[Illustration]