It’s wondering I can imagine at all
That same blessed room, —38, Kelly Hall ;—
The name on my tongue has a sweet Irish taste,
Like the lip of the maiden within it embraced ;—
There’s the flavor of bog on them both I surmise
When I dream of the depths of those dear Keltic eyes,
Where thro’ tender mists of dark hazel and green
Scot Highlands and Lakes of Killarney are seen,—
Or when deep-sea fog hides the landscape so fair
Blarney Castle smiles on thro’ the rain falling there.

"Thirty-eight, Kelly Hall"—with its face to the east,—
The song of the morn fills her soul with its peace
While the summer's sweet breath from the forest and lake
Shall perfume the breezes that blow,—for her sake.

There’s the touch of a woman’s hand felt in the room,—
A dusting-cloth hush on the trail of the broom ;—
A hat on the dresser, the gloves on the chair,—
And unseen assurances woman is there.

The books on the table her head has bent o’er,—
The gown on the hook I remember she wore ;—
The last lecture thought in a woman’s phrase drest,—
And a letter which, one day, she wore in her breast.

So,—this is the vision first seen when I wake—
"38, Kelly Hall,"—by the shore of the lake ;—
And the last thought at night "Does she wish I might call
At the home where she dwells—ivy-clad Kelly Hall?"