She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee: Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! And if thou tarry from her,—if this could be,— She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamèd herself forsake: Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake! Awake, the land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree: And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake; Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, “O sun now bring him to me. Come more adored, O adored, for his coming’s sake, And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!” Who that hath ever shot a shaft at heaven Whether of wonder, praise or humble prayer, But hath not straight received his answer given, And been made strong with comforting, aware Of strength and beauty for his purpose meant, Whether it were a lark’s song or a scent That wanders on the quavering paths of the air? The sweetest of all birds, that fed my slumber With music through the thought-exalting night, Among forgotten fancies without number Transfigured sorrow to a heart’s delight. And uninvited memories, that stole With haunting trouble to their slavèd soul Were turned to wondrous joys and aspects bright. So intimate a part are we of Nature That even to call us best part doth us wrong, Being her mind, the meaning of her feature, To whom her varied forms wholly belong. So that what were not ours were worthless quite, And thus to me it happened on that night To be the love and joy of this bird’s song. As it came leaping on the dark unguarded Silence of midnight to the door of the ear: And finding the warm passages unwarded Sped up the spiral stair, and mounted near To where in unseen rooms the delicate sprite That never sleeps sat watching through the night Weaving the time in fancies strange and drear. Nor was it that the heavenly music fluttered The quick electric atoms; rarer far, The melody this bird of passion uttered Coloured the firmament where all thoughts are: As in the characters a poet’s hand Has traced, there lie—for poets understand— Heart-thrills that shoot through blackness like a star. And so, as summer eve will sweetly soften The wayward thoughts of all who forth may fare, To me there came the spirit who haunts not often My heart for sorrow of the sadness there: But now her face was lit with joy, her eyes Were eager messengers of her surprise That she was quit of her profound despair.