He Comes Not
He comes not! ’tis in vain I wait;
The crane’s wild cry strikes on mine ear,
The tempest howls, the hour is late,
Dark is the raven night and drear:—
And, as I thus stand sighing,
The snowflakes round me flying
Light on my sleeve, and freeze it crisp and clear.
Sure ’tis too late! he cannot come;
Yet trust I still that we may meet,
As sailors gayly rowing home
Trust in their ship so safe and fleet.
Though waking hours conceal him,
Oh! may my dreams reveal him,
Filling the long, long night with converse sweet!
Anon.