Iv

And when she leaves,--and none perceives,-- The old gray manor, where the eight Old locusts, (twisted shadows), freight With mossy murmurings its eaves, One moment at the iron gate She ’ll tarry. Then, with breath abate, Come rustling through the autumn leaves. And I will take both hands and sate My mouth on hers and say, “You ’re late”; She ’ll laugh to hear I had to wait....