TO me at end of each dull, weary day
Night comes like handmaid in the house of death,
With muffled step and quiet hand to lay
Her pall upon me; for at sleep's first breath
Against my cheek swift dreaming do I fly
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To keep the tryst that only lovers may
Whom Death in pity has not cruelly
Parted. For Death has in his hateful sway
Robbed me of her whose love to me was all,
Well knowing he, with such a hostage, soon
Could bring me willing captive to his thrall;
Yet jealous has he grown of me, the boon
I beg of him with many a sigh and moan
He will not grant, but keeps me here alone.
Y.
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Amusements.
