  “I THINK I hear the sound of horses’ feet Beating upon the graveled avenue. Go to the window that looks on the street, He would not let me die alone, I knew.” Back to the couch the patient watcher passed, And said: “It is the wailing of the blast.” She turned upon her couch and, seeming, slept, The long, dark lashes shadowing her cheek; And on and on the weary moments crept, When suddenly the watcher heard her speak: “I think I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs—” And answered, “’Tis the rain upon the roofs.” Unbroken silence, quiet, deep, profound. The restless sleeper turns: “How dark, how late! What is it that I hear—a trampling sound? I think there is a horseman at the gate.” The watcher turns away her eyes tear-blind: “It is the shutter beating in the wind. The dread hours passed; the patient clock ticked on; The weary watcher moved not from her place. The gray dim shadows of the early dawn Caught sudden glory from the sleeper’s face. “He comes! my love! I knew he would!” she cried; And smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died. |
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