TO A LADY PLAYING AND SINGING IN THE MORNING
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OYFUL lady, sing!And I will lurk here listening,Though nought be done, and nought begun,And work-hours swift are scurrying. Sing, O lady, still!Aye, I will wait each note you trill,Though duties due that press to doThis whole day long I unfulfil. “—It is an evening tune;One not designed to waste the noon,”You say. I know: time bids me go—For daytide passes too, too soon! But let indulgence be,This once, to my rash ecstasy:When sounds nowhere that carolled airMy idled morn may comfort me! “A MAN WAS DRAWING NEAR TO ME” ON that gray night of mournful drone,A part from aught to hear, to see,I dreamt not that from shires unknownIn gloom, alone,By Halworthy,A man was drawing near to me. I’d no concern at anything,No sense of coming pull-heart play;Yet, under the silent outspreadingOf even’s wingWhere Otterham lay,A man was riding up my way. I thought of nobody—not of one,But only of trifles—legends, ghosts—Though, on the moorland dim and dunThat travellers shunAbout these coasts,The man had passed Tresparret Posts. There was no light at all inland,Only the seaward pharos-fire,Nothing to let me understandThat hard at handBy Hennett ByreThe man was getting nigh and nigher. There was a rumble at the door,A draught disturbed the drapery,And but a minute passed before,With gaze that boreMy destiny,The man revealed himself to me.
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