WAITING.
HE is coming! he is coming! in my throbbing breast I feel it;
There is music in my blood, and it whispers all day long,
That my love unknown comes toward me! Ah, my heart, he need not steal it,
For I cannot hide the secret that it murmurs in its song!
O the sweet bursting flowers! how they open, never blushing,
Laying bare their fragrant bosoms to the kisses of the sun!
And the birds—I thought 't was poets only read their tender gushing,
But I hear their pleading stories, and I know them every one.
