But a horseman rides to the wicket gate—
All my pulses proclaim it he,
My knight who has parted the waves of the sea,
Who has cleft the wide world in his searching for me....
Fond, foolish, dreaming!—for surely Fate
Decrees him the winning a worthier mate
Than a simple girl like me!
III.
Why does he come to me,
With his deep, impassioned eyes,
Stealing my soul from me?
Surely a high emprise
For such an one as he
To smile an hour on me—
To win a worthless prize,
Would he might let me be!
Proud am I—proud as he
For my name as his is old—
What should he say to me?
I have neither lands nor gold.
Ah, a merry jest 'twill be
To win my heart from me—
(The tale will be soon told!)
Would he might let me be!
IV.
Swept, swept away is my vaunted pride
On a flood-tide of tenderness;
I envy the dog that bounds to his side,
And the chestnut mare he is wont to ride
'Cross moor and mead when the day is fine,
As she lays her head in a mute caress
'Gainst the arm of her lord—and mine!
V.
Ah, silver and gold of the glad June morning—
Gold of the sunshine and silver of dew,
Dew drop gems all the meads adorning—
Are love and the rose-time a theme for scorning?
Roses, roses,—dream not of rue!
Am I not loved by you?
Antiphonal to sweet sylvan singers,
The brook with its maddening, gladdening rune!
And my lover's kiss still thrills and lingers,
Lingers and burns on my tremulous fingers!
Ah, birds in a very riot of tune
Pour out my joy to the heart of June!
He loves me—loves me! My heart is singing.—
(Heart, oh heart of my heart is it true?)
Song on my lips from my soul upringing,
A passion of bliss to the breezes flinging,
Roses, roses—nor dream of rue!
I am beloved by you.
VI.