The night comes down in rain, grey garmented—
The night winds rise and wander listlessly
Across the dun slopes, downward to the sea—
Or murmur sadly in the pines o'erhead.
The air is thick with whispers of the night,
The hedgerows murmur, half articulate,
The secret of the woodlands, heard aright—
And I—I listen for my Love and wait
The white road fades as, layer on layer the shade
Draws denser, and the ceaseless, warm rain falls.
The stars burn faintly—it is very late—
The woods are still, save, where far down the glade
A hare limps, or the wakeful white owl calls,
And I—I listen for my Love and wait.