Page:Poems Allen.djvu/225

THINE.

HE tide will ebb at day's decline:
            Ich bin dein!
Impatient for the open sea,
 At anchor rocks the tossing ship,
The ship which only waits for thee;
 Yet with no tremble of the lip
I say again, thy hand in mine,
            Ich bin dein!

I shall not weep, or grieve, or pine:
            Ich bin dein!
Go, lave once more thy restless hands
 Afar within the azure sea,—
Traverse Arabia's scorching sands,—
 Fly where no thought can follow thee,
O'er desert waste and billowy brine:
            Ich bin dein!

Dream on the slopes of Apennine:
            Ich bin dein!