Poetry Archives

My true love from her pillow rose
 And wandered down the summer lane.
She left her house to the wind’s carouse,
 And her chamber wide to the rain.

She did not stop to don her coat,
 She did not stop to smooth her bed—
But out she went in glad content
 There where the bright path led.

She did not feel the beating storm,
 But fled like a sunbeam, white and frail,
To the sea, to the air, somewhere, somewhere—
 I have not found her trail.