THE LOVER WAITS
This is her home! and oh, my homeless heart!
Mine eyes fill, for I know that yonder light
Assures her loveliness to other eyes. . . .
The stars go down. I hear the whimpering owl,
And little winds go past me in the dark,
Softly, afraid to wake the drowsing oaks
That guard her home with rough but faithful breasts.
Ah me! that mine were sleeping at their roots—
Too still to fear, as now, her smallest scorn.
The dews descend. The breath of flowers that die
Ascends. They mingle in the tender night
To some faint, holy symbol of her soul. . . .
The rose must pass, the starlight of the dew. . . .
There's little comfort in the stars to-night,
Tho' Venus, o'er the mountain, glows like fire
Spilt from the censer of the Pleiades. . . .
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