Alexander Smith (1830–1867)

THE CALLOW young were huddling in the nests,

The marigold was burning in the marsh

Like a thing dipt in sunset, when he came.

My blood went up to meet him on my face,

Glad as a child that hears its father’s step

And runs to meet him at the open porch.

I gave him all my being, like a flower

That flings its perfume on a vagrant breeze—

A breeze that wanders on and heeds it not.

His scorn is lying on my heart like snow,

My eyes are weary, and I fain would sleep:

The quietest sleep is underneath the ground.

Are ye around me, friends? I cannot see,

I cannot hear the voices that I love,

I lift my hands to you from out the night!

Methought I felt a tear upon my cheek.—

Weep not, my mother! It is time to rest,

And I am very weary; so, good-night!