And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, here to-day,
Or here to-morrow will he come.
O, somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,
That sittest ’ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
Poor child, that waitest for thy love!
For now her father’s chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
And thinking “this will please him best,”