Poetry Archives

Oh thou, mine other, stronger part!
   Whom yet I cannot hear, or see,
Come thou, and take this loving heart,
   That longs to yield its all to thee,
   I call mine own—oh, come to me!
   Love, answer back, I come to thee,
            I come to thee.

This hungry heart, so warm, so large,
   Is far too great a care for me.
I have grown weary of the charge
   I keep so sacredly for thee.
   Come thou, and take my heart from me.
   Love, answer back, I come to thee,
            I come to thee.

I am a-weary, waiting here
   For one who tarries long from me.
Oh! art thou far, or art thou near?
   And must I still be sad for thee?
   Or wilt thou straightway come to me?
   Love, answer, I am near to thee,
            I come to thee.


The melody, so full of plaintive chords,
Sobbed into silence—echoing down the strings
Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings.
Vivian had leaned upon the instrument
The while they sang.  But, as he spoke those words,
“Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee,”
He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent
His lustrous, soulful, speaking gaze on me.
And my young heart, eager to own its king,
Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light
Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek
Hope’s rose-hued flag.  There was no need to speak
I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen.  “Sing
That song you sang a fragment of one night
Out on the porch, beginning, ‘Praise me not,’”
I whispered:  and her sweet and plaintive tone
Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught
From some sad passing breeze, and made her own,
The echo of the wind-harp’s sighing strain,
Or the soft music of the falling rain.