THE DARK HOUSE
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usk in the rain-soaked garden,And dark the house within.A door creaked: someone was earlyTo watch the dawn begin.But he stole away like a thiefIn the chilly, star-bright air:Though the house was shuttered for slumber,He had left one wakeful there. Nothing moved in the garden.Never a bird would sing,Nor shake and scatter the dew from the boughsWith shy and startled wing.But when that lover had passed the gateA quavering thrush began...'Come back; come back!' he shrilled to the heartOf the passion-plighted man.
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