Would there be sorrow for me?

There was love in the passionate shriek,

Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave–wrapt in a cloak,

As I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak

And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave.


I am sick of the Hall and the hill,

I am sick of the moor and the main.




Why should I stay?

Can a sweeter chance ever come to me here?






Half the night I waste in sighs,


Half in dreams I sorrow after


The delight of early skies;


In a wakeful dose I sorrow,







For the hand, the lips, the eyes,

For the meeting U of the morrow......?