The Dark House

Dusk in the rain-soaked garden, And dark the house within. A door creaked: someone was early To watch the dawn begin. But he stole away like a thief In the chilly, star-bright air: Though the house was shuttered for slumber, He had left one wakeful there. Nothing moved in the garden. Never a bird would sing, Nor shake and scatter the dew from the boughs With shy and startled wing. But when that lover had passed the gate A quavering thrush began... ‘Come back; come back!’ he shrilled to the heart Of the passion-plighted man.