--Not death, for he sleepeth; but beauty sore blemished By sorrow and sickness, and for all that the sweeter. I will wait till he wakens and gaze on his beauty, Lest I never again in the world should behold him. --Maybe I may help him; he is sick and needs tending, He is poor, and shall scorn not our simpleness surely. Whence came he to us-ward--what like has his life been-- Who spoke to him last--for what is he longing? --As one hearkening a story I wonder what cometh, And in what wise my voice to our homestead shall bid him. O heart, how thou faintest with hope of the gladness I may have for a little if there he abide. Soft there shalt thou sleep, love, and sweet shall thy dreams be, And sweet thy awaking amidst of the wonder Where thou art, who is nigh thee--and then, when thou seest How the rose-boughs hang in o'er the little loft window, And the blue bowl with roses is close to thine hand, And over thy bed is the quilt sewn with lilies, And the loft is hung round with the green Southland hangings, And all smelleth sweet as the low door is opened, And thou turnest to see me there standing, and holding Such dainties as may be, thy new hunger to stay-- Then well may I hope that thou wilt not remember Thine old woes for a moment in the freshness and pleasure, And that I shall be part of thy rest for a little. And then---who shall say--wilt thou tell me thy story, And what thou hast loved, and for what thou hast striven? --Thou shalt see me, and my love and my pity, as thou speakest, And it may be thy pity shall mingle with mine. --And meanwhile--Ah, love, what hope may my heart hold? For I see that thou lovest, who ne'er hast beheld me. And how should thy love change, howe'er the world changeth? Yet meanwhile, had I dreamed of the bliss of this minute, How might I have borne to live weary and waiting!