The Lover

It is dark and lonesome here, Beneath the windy eaves:— The cold, cold ground my bed, My coverlet dead leaves, My only bedfellow The rain that wets my sleeves! If it be day, or night, I know not, cannot say, For I am like a child Who has lost his troubled way, Till I see the white of the hoar-frost— Then I know it is day! I touch the silent strings, The broken lute complains; The sweets of love are gone, The bitterness remains, Like the memory of summer In the time of the long rains! A few more days and nights, My tears will cease to flow; For I hear a voice within, Which tells me I shall go, Before the morning hoar-frost Becomes the night of snow!

Collection: 
English
Richard Henry Stoddard

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