  COME, oh, come to me, voice or look, or spirit or dream, but, oh, come now; All these faces that crowd so thick are pale and cold and dead—Come thou, Scatter them back to the ivory gate and be alone and rule the night. Surely all worlds are nothing to Love, for Love to flash thro’ the night and come; Hither and thither he flies at will, with thee he dwelleth—there is his home. Come, O Love, with a voice, a message; haste, O Love, on thy wings of light. Love, I am calling thee, Love, I am calling; dost thou not hear my crying, sweet? Does not the live air throb with the pain of my beating heart, till thy heart beat?— Surely momently thou wilt be here, surely, O sweet Love, momently. No, my voice would be all too faint, too faint, when it reached Love’s ear, tho’ the night is still, Fainter ever and fainter grown o’er hill and valley and valley and hill, There where thou liest quietly sleeping, and Love keeps watch as the dreams flit by. Ah, my thought so subtle and swift, can it not fly till it reach thy brain, And whisper there some faint regret for a weary watch and a distant pain?— Not too loud, to awake thy slumber; not too tender, to make thee weep; Just so much for thy head to turn on the pillow so, and understand Dimly, that a soft caress has come long leagues from a weary land, Turn and half remember and smile, and send a kiss on the wings of sleep. |
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