Poetry Archives

Dusk in the rain-soaked garden,
And dark the house within.
A door creaked: someone was early
To watch the dawn begin.
  But he stole away like a thief
  In the chilly, star-bright air:
  Though the house was shuttered for slumber,
  He had left one wakeful there.

Nothing moved in the garden.
Never a bird would sing,
Nor shake and scatter the dew from the boughs
With shy and startled wing.
  But when that lover had passed the gate
  A quavering thrush began…
  ‘Come back; come back!’ he shrilled to the heart
  Of the passion-plighted man.