Part 8 (1/2)

Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No gra.s.s 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 sh.o.r.e.

A lovely day! Yet many such, Each like to each, this month have pa.s.sed, And none did so supremely s.h.i.+ne.

One thing they lacked: the perfect touch Of thee--and thou art come at last, And half this loveliness is thine.

WELCOME HOME

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 pa.s.sed!

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.

Quick, a fresh log to burn!

Run and open the door, Hold a lamp out before To light up the turn, And bring in the urn.

You are come, then, at last!

O my dear, is it you?

I can scarce think it true I am holding you fast, And sorrow is past.

AN INVITATION

Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly, And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belating Is to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.

Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.

The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creating The woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie, And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.