BLISS CARMAN
The heart of the forest grieves In the drift against my door; A voice is under the eaves, A footfall on the floor.
Threshold, mirror, and hall, Vacant and strangely aware, Wait for their soul's recall With the dumb expectant air.
Here when the smouldering west
Burns down into the sea,
I take no heed of rest
And keep the watch for thee.
I sit by the fire and hear The restless wind go by, On the long dirge and drear, Under the low bleak sky.
When day puts out to sea And night makes in for land, There is no lock for thee, Each door awaits thy hand T
When the zenith moon is round, And snow-wraiths gather and run, And there is set no bound To love beneath the sun,
O wayward will, come near The old mad wilful way, The soft mouth at my ear With words too sweet to sayl
�� �
