A WOOING SONG.

O love, I come; thy last glance guideth me! Drawn, too, by webs of shadow, like thine hair; For, Sweet, the mystery Of thy dark hair the deepening dusk hath caught. In early moonlight gleamings, lo, I see Thy white hands beckon to the garden, where Dim day and silvery darkness are inwrought As our two lives, where, joining soul with soul, The tints shall mingle in a fairer whole. Oh! dost thou hear? I call, beloved, I call, My stout heart trembling till thy words return; Hope-lifted, I float faster with the fall Of fear toward joy such fear alone can earn!