I WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE.

The evening air pass'd by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr'd,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind,

A hand was on my shoulder,

I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer- -nearer,-
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.