The Brookside

I Wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow,— The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree; I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not,—no, he came not,— The night came on alone,— The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder,— I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer,—nearer,— We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.