The Dark House
Dusk in the rain—soaked garden,
And dark the house within.
A door creaked: someone was early
To watch the dawn begin.
But he stole away like a thief
In 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 boughs
With shy and startled wing.
But when that lover had passed the gate
A quavering thrush began...
‘Come back; come back!’ he shrilled to the heart
Of the passion—plighted man.
