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Will she come to me in the noonday hush, When the flowers are fast asleep ‘Neath their counterpane of emerald plush In the fragrant warmth of the under-brush, Where Spring still lingers on moist and lush— While naught but the shadows creep, And all is rest but the eager quest And the buzz of the tireless bee? But how shall I know my lady then? And how will my love know me?

Or will she come when the gallant Day At the hands of the Night lies dead? When stealthy creatures have right of way Among the branches to romp and play, And the great green forest turns ashen gray At the sound of the dead men’s tread? Will my lady slip with smile on lip From the heart of a white box tree? But how shall I know ’tis she who comes? And how will she know ’tis me?

Will her hair be tinged as when sunbeams gird A castle of carmine rock? Or brown as a leaf in the sun’s kiss curled? Or dark as the wing of that sable bird Whose hated voice is so often heard In the wake of the bleating flock?