leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover,
dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;
if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover,--
nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait
Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near,
For my love he is late!
skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:
what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters grow,
Let the sweet waters flow,
And cross quickly to me.
night-moths that hover where honey brims over
sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;
glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover
him that comes darkling along the rough steep,
Ah, my sailor, make haste,
For the time runs to waste,
And my love lieth deep,--
deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,
conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."
the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover,
all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;
But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.