At last, dear love, the day is gone,
The doors are barred—the lamps are lit,
The couch beside the fire is drawn,
The nook where thou wert wont to sit;
The book is open at the place,
And half its leaves are still uncut,
And yet without thy listening face,
I cannot read, the book I shut,
And muse, and dream:—it is the day
When lovers, silent all the year,
Find tongues in floral tokens gay,
To whisper all they long to hear.
Ah, many a time, and many a time
I saw the question in thine eyes,
Where is the silver-sounding rhyme,
The simple household melodies,
The harp that trembled to thy touch;
Hast thou forgot thine early lore?
And know'st not that I love so much,
That song contents my heart no more.
For thou hast made my life so sweet,
With dainty gifts thy dear hands bring,
Rich with thine affluence, and complete,
I have no longing left to sing.
And yet, I have such vast desires,
Such thirst for some great destiny,
That all the poet's weaker fires
Burn into prophecies for thee.
The circle of our home could make
The boundaries of my world, but thine
So splendid is,—for thy dear sake,
I fain would push the bounds of mine.
For this I study as I may
To walk with thee, the world of mind,
To follow where thou lead'st the way,
A step,—but just a step behind.
Thy hand in mine, thine earnest eyes
Fixed ever on the radiant goal,
Together shall we climb the skies,
And mingle there, one perfect soul.