The Visionary

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:  

One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep,  

Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze  

That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.  

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;          

Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;  

The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:  

I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star.  

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame!  

Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame:        

But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know,  

What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.  

What I love shall come like visitant of air,  

Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;  

What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray,        

Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.  

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—  

Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:  

He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;  

Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.