A WOOING SONG.

O love, I come; thy last glance guideth me!

Drawn, too, by webs of shadow, like thine hair;

For, Sweet, the mystery

Of thy dark hair the deepening dusk hath caught.

In early moonlight gleamings, lo, I see

Thy white hands beckon to the garden, where

Dim day and silvery darkness are inwrought

As our two lives, where, joining soul with soul,

The tints shall mingle in a fairer whole.

Oh! dost thou hear? I call, beloved, I call,

My stout heart trembling till thy words return;

Hope-lifted, I float faster with the fall

Of fear toward joy such fear alone can earn!