WITH rosy flushing ear, and cheeks that wear
The soft auroral hues that garment her,
She waits ; nor doth one slender gold beam stir,
Of all the floating sunshine of her hair,
One sigh’s waft vex the tense and listening air,
One bosom’s heave the tender hope aver
That parts the lips where late her arch smiles were,
Where they will break anon. Hark! On the stair,
She hears, e’en now she hears — thrice-tranced thereby —
The whisper of light feet that come anear,
And nearer ; and the spirit of a sigh
Hovers, the while her hope becomes a fear,
And yet fulfillment lingers — nigh, so nigh —
Nor may she breathe till all her bliss is here !
F. Whitmore.