Chapter I: Aubade

The dawn is here--and the long night through I have
never seen thy face,
Though my feet have worn the patient grass at the gate
of thy dwelling-place.

While the white moon sailed till, red in the west, it found
the far world-edge,
No leaflet stirred of the leaves that climb to garland
thy window ledge.

Yet the vine had quivered from root to tip, and opened
its flowers again,
If only the low moon's light had glanced on a moving
casement pane.

Warm was the wind that entered in where the barrier
stood ajar,
And the curtain shook with its gentle breath, white as
young lilies are;

But there came no hand all the slow night through to draw
the folds aside,
(I longed as the moon and the vine-leaves longed!) or to
set the casement wide.

Three times in a low-hung nest there dreamed his five
sweet notes a bird,
And thrice my heart leaped up at the sound I thought
thou hadst surely heard.

But now that thy praise is caroled aloud by a thousand
throats awake,
Shall I watch from afar and silently, as under the moon,
for thy sake?

Nay--bold in the sun I speak thy name, I too, and I wait
no more
Thy hand, thy face, in the window niche, but thy kiss at
the open door!