Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/27

 Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought;

Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, 'here to-day,' Or 'here to-morrow will he come.'

O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love!

For now her father's chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking 'this will please him best,' She takes a riband or a rose;

For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right;