At Your Gate
WHEN ail your beauty's pageant fades,
And all your courtly lovers tire,
And you are left, 'mid gathering shades,
A weary woman by the fire,
I wonder if your thought will tend,
Past all your memories of state,
To one poor loving, faithful friend
In willow cabin at your gate.
Your golden palace gates will close,
On the cold hearth the flame expire,
The thorn succeed your withered rose,
Your face no longer wake desire.
Remember then that one is true,
But no,—the time is long to wait,
Remember now my love for you
In willow cabin at your gate.
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