Love, I have wandered a weary way,
1A weary way for thee.
The East is wan with the smile of the day—
1Open thy door to me!
My hair is wet with the dew of the night
1That falls from the cedar-tree;
The shadows are dark; but the East is light—
1Open thy door to me!
The stones of the road have bruised my feet—
1The hours till morn are three—
Thou that hast spikenard precious sweet.
1Open thy door to me!
Stay not thy hand upon the lock,
1Nor thy fingers on the key.
In the breeze before morn the tree-tops rock-
1Open thy door to me!
My love is the fairest, the only one,
1The choice of her house is she—
The height of the heaven hath seen the sun—
1Open thy door to me!
The holy kiss of my lips aud thine
1Shall the sun have grace to see?
The hours foregone of the night are nine—
1Open thy door to me!