Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/270



, 'tis thy voice! No, but a bird upon the bough Romancing to its mate, but where art thou To bid my heart rejoice?

'Tis thy hand, speak! No, but the branches striking in the wind Let loose a withered leaf that falls behind, Blown to my cheek.

Hush, thy footfall! No, 'tis a streamlet hidden in the fern. Thus from dawn to dark I wait, I learn Sorrow is all.