Iv

All day, ’twixt hope and fear, She waited at the gate, Looking for him, more dear Now that he made her wait: Day went and night draws near: Stormy it grows and late.

Still, still she waits: great limbs The winds rend from the ridge; Each swollen shallow swims Head-deep below the bridge; The drift, that breaks and brims Swirls lighter than the midge.

The night grows wildly gray With lightning-litten rain; The forests sound and sway, An oak is rent in twain; The thunder rolls away Like some vast bolt and chain.

The Fork is whirling wreck Of field and farm and wood; And many a foaming fleck Drives where the rock-fence stood;-- A torrent sweeps break-neck Above the washed-out blood.

Night deepens: still she waits Expectant in despair: The Fork has reached the gates, The wood’s wreck everywhere. But when the storm abates, She thinks, he will be there.

She sees the lightning rush Its blazing hells above; She hears the thunder crush Heaven as if earthquake-clove-- Loud in the tempest’s hush She calls with all her love.

He comes, she feels; and stands The rushing waters o’er Her feet, and on her hands And hair the wild down-pour, The lightnings are wild brands To light him to her door.

Night deepens: but she knows God will not fail to send Her love to soothe her woes, And one day’s errors mend.-- The wild stream foams and flows Booming in fall and bend.

Again the lightnings light The night like some wild torch; The waters foam and fight; And one uprooted larch Sweeps down, with something white Wedged in it, by her porch.

She stoops: the lurid rain Beats on her back and head-- Ay! he hath come again! With livid lips once red! A bullet in his brain The night hath brought him--dead!