He waited and, as he waited, grew less eager. He had come first, believing he was anxious. The quag lay buried in the darkness at his feet. The village lights shone far between and meager. He must not whistle here. His nerves grew tauter. A wind, that rose among the woods behind him, Died through the fields. Then silence -- broken only By turtles puddling the invisible bog water. Then, through a stillness, listening, he heard Her running on the path, night-terrified Or eager. And he saw her body slacken And look for him. She stopped. He never stirred. But watched how credulously, hour by hour, she stood. And when, at last, the longing woman went, He set his face to make the nearest light, And marched to beat the silence through the wood. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SMILING MOUTH by CHARLES D'ORLEANS THE IVY GREEN by CHARLES DICKENS HAARLEM HEIGHTS by ARTHUR GUITERMAN A BALLAD OF LONDON (TO H.W. MASSINGHAM) by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS by THOMAS MOORE POET'S CORNER by ALFRED AUSTIN DECLASSE by ANNA EMILIA BAGSTAD QUATORZAINS: 7. ANOTHER FANTASTIC SIMILE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |