42
Belfry and clock the unending hours repeat,
From twelve to twelve—and still she comes in none—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
From twelve to twelve—and still she comes in none—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
Oh, long-delayed to-morrow!—hearts that beat
Measure the length of every minute gone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
Measure the length of every minute gone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
Ever the suns rise, tardily or fleet,
And light the letters on a churchyard stone,—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
And light the letters on a churchyard stone,—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
And still from out her unknown, far retreat
She haunts me with her tender undertone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet—
And still I say, "To-morrow—we shall meet."
She haunts me with her tender undertone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet—
And still I say, "To-morrow—we shall meet."
