Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/873

 There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps, 'She is late,' The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

709 O that 'twere possible

O that 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again!

A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee: Ah, Christ! that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be!