CLXII Song
I wander’d by the brook-side,
I wander’d by the mill,—
I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird;
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
I sat beneath the elm-tree,
I watch’d the long, long shade.
And as it grew still longer
I did not feel afraid;
For I listen’d for a foot-fall,
I listen’d for a word,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
He came not,—no, he came not;
The night came on alone;
The little stars sat one by one
Each on his golden throne;
The evening air pass’d by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr’d,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
Fast silent tears were flowing,
When some one stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer, nearer;
We did not speak a word,—
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.
R. M. Milnes