THE MAID THAT I WOOED

I lie upon my couch by night,

And dream, and dream —

Until the quavering shadow-light

Her portraiture doth seem —

Until the breeze's moaning saith

In limpid-lapping stream,

The same denial she answereth.

I lie upon my couch by night,

And yearn, and yearn —

Until the flickering breeze's flight

Bring kisses that would burn —

Until my soul could moan with pain —

Oh, wherefore should she spurn

My love again, and yet again?

I toss upon my couch by night;

I yearn; I yearn —

Until I see the glimmering light

Upon the east return —

Until with passion-pulsing breath,

I pray my lady stern:

“Oh, let me win thee, sweetest Death —”