| I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, |
| Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; |
| "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover— |
| Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait |
| Till I listen and hear |
| If a step draweth near, |
| For my love he is late! |
| |
| "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, |
| A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, |
| The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: |
| To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?p> |
| Let the star-clusters grow, |
| Let the sweet waters flow. |
| And cross quickly to me. |
| |
| "You night-moths that hover where honey brims over |
| From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; |
| You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover |
| To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. |
| Ah, my sailor, make haste, |
| For the time runs to waste, |
| And my love lieth deep, |
| |
| "Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, |
| I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." |
| By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover; |
| Then 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. |
| |
| Jean Ingelow. |