Chapter I

Pull up the window-lattice, Jane, and raise me in my bed,
And trim, my beard, and brush my hair, and from this covering free me,
And brace me back against the wall, and raise my aching head,
And make me trim, for one I love is coming here to see me;
Or if she do not see me, Jane, twill be that her dear eyes
Are shut as ne'er they shut before, in all of their reposing;
For never yet my lowest word has failed of kind replies,
And ever still my lightest touch has burst her eyelids closing;
So let her come to me.

They say she's coming in her sleep--a sleep they can not break;
Ay, let them call, and let them weep, in dull and droning fashion!
Her ear may hear their doleful tones an age and never wake;
But let me pour into its depth my words of burning passion!
Ay, let my hot and yearning lips, that long have yearned in vain,
But press her pure and sacred cheek, and wander in her tresses;
And let my tears no more be lost, but on her forehead rain,
And she will rise and pity me, and soothe me with caresses;
So let her come to me.

O silver-crested days agone, that wove us in one heart!
O golden future years, that urged our hands to clasp in striving!
There is not that in earth or sky can hold us two apart;
And I of her, and she of me, not long may know depriving!
So bring her here, where I have long in absence pining lain,
While on my fevered weakness crashed the castles of our building;
And once together, all the woe and weary throbs of pain
That strove to cloud our happiness shall be its present gilding;
So let her come to me.