“I think I hear the sound of horses feet
Beating upon the gravelled 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 grey 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.