Then, dearest, be for ever mine,
In that small station on the line.
And though my lot’s all day to stamp
Those slips of card-board blue,
When faded is the mail’s red lamp,
I come to love and you.
Then, dearest, you must not refuse,
But to my prayers incline;
I’ll fetter thee, in Hymen’s noose,
Not in—but on—a line.