Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.
I stand with thee outside the door, The air not yet is close with heat, And far across the yellowing wheat The waves are breaking on the shore.
A lovely day! Yet many such, Each like to each, this month have passed, And none did so supremely shine. One thing they lacked: the perfect touch Of thee--and thou art come at last, And half this loveliness is thine.
The fire burns bright And the hearth is clean swept, As she likes it kept, And the lamp is alight. She is coming to-night.
The wind's east of late. When she comes, she'll be cold, So the big chair is rolled Close up to the grate, And I listen and wait.
The shutters are fast, And the red curtains hide Every hint of outside. But hark, how the blast Whistled then as it passed!
Or was it the train? How long shall I stand, With my watch in my hand, And listen in vain For the wheels in the lane?
Hark! A rumble I hear (Will the wind not be still?), And it comes down the hill, And it grows on the ear, And now it is near.