I shall wait by the gate
To see you pass,
Closely press'd, three abreast,
Clanking with brass:
With your smart red mail-cart
Hard at your heels,
Scarlet ground, fleck'd around
With the Queen's seals.
Up the hills, down the hills,
Till the cart shrink
To a faint dab of paint
On the sky-brink,
Never stop till you drop,
On to the town,
Bearing great news of state
To Lords and Crown.
And down deep in the keep
Of your mail-cart,
There's a note that I wrote
To my sweetheart.
I had no words that glow,
No penman's skill,
And high-born maids would scorn
Spelling so ill;
But what if it be stiff
Of hand and thought,
And ink-blots mark the spots
Where kisses caught,
He will read without heed
Of phrases' worth,
That I love him above
All things on earth.
I must wait here, till late
Past Evensong,
Ere you come tearing home—
Days are so long!—
But I'll watch, till I catch
Your bell's chime clear ...
If you'll bring me something—
Won't you please, dear?