  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. Richard Monckton Milnes. |
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