I HEAR AND I WAIT 



O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 



For one that will never be thine? 

 But mine, but mine," so I swore to the rose, 



" For ever and ever, mine." 



And the Soul of the rose went into my blood, 



As the music clash'd in the hall ; 

 And long by the garden lake I stood, 



For I heard your rivulet fall 

 From the lake to the meadow and on to the 

 wood, 



Our wood, that is dearer than all; 



From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 

 That whenever a March-wind sighs 



He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

 In violets blue as your eyes, 



To the woody hollows in which we meet 

 And the valleys of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 

 One long milk-bloom on the tree; 



The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

 As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 



[8 7 ] 



