It shakes—­my trees shake—­for a wind is roused
    In cavern where it housed: 
    Each white and quivering sail,
    Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale: 
    Each maiden sings again—­
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm
    Miles down my river to the sea
      They float and wane, 50
    Long miles away from me.

    Perhaps they say:  ’She grieves,
      Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.’ 
      Perhaps they say:  ’One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves.’ 
      Perhaps they say:  ’One hour
        More, and we stand,
        Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!’

      My trees are not in flower, 60
      I have no bower,
      And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.

THE GHOST’S PETITION

‘There’s a footstep coming:  look out and see,’
  ’The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;
No one cometh across the lea.’—­

’There’s a footstep coming; O sister, look.’—­
  ’The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;
No one cometh across the brook.’—­

’But he promised that he would come: 
  To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,
He must keep his word, and must come home.

’For he promised that he would come:  10
  His word was given; from earth or heaven,
He must keep his word, and must come home.

’Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;
  You can slumber, who need not number
Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.

’I shall sit here awhile, and watch;
  Listening, hoping, for one hand groping
In deep shadow to find the latch.’

After the dark, and before the light,
  One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping, 20
Who had watched and wept the weary night.

After the night, and before the day,
  One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping—­
Watching, weeping for one away.

There came a footstep climbing the stair;
  Some one standing out on the landing
Shook the door like a puff of air—­

Shook the door, and in he passed. 
  Did he enter?  In the room centre
Stood her husband:  the door shut fast. 30

’O Robin, but you are cold—­
  Chilled with the night-dew:  so lily-white you
Look like a stray lamb from our fold.

’O Robin, but you are late: 
  Come and sit near me—­sit here and cheer me.’—­
(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)

’Lay not down your head on my breast: 
  I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you
In the shelter that you love best.