Page:Poems, Volume 2, Coates, 1916.djvu/125

Rh Yet still I wait for thee!

And thou wilt come!—wilt come—wilt come to me!

The hours delay; I make no moan,—

Apart from thee,—yet not alone,—

Sweeter than far-off music sighing,

I hear thy voice forever crying:—

"Eurydice!—lost, lost Eurydice!"