MY DOOR is always left ajar, Lest you should suddenly slip through, A little breathless frightened star; Each footfall sets my heart abeat, I always think it may be you, Stolen in from the street. My ears are evermore attent, Waiting in vain for one blest sound -- The little frock, with lilac scent, That used to whisper up the stair; Then in my arms with one wild bound -- Your lips, your eyes, your hair. Never the south wind through the rose, Brushing its petals with soft hand, Made such sweet talking as your clothes, Rustling and fragrant as you came, And at my aching door would stand -- Then vanish into flame. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH by AMY LOWELL DOMESDAY BOOK: GEORGE JOSLIN ON LA MENKEN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF RUTLAND by BEN JONSON OF THE REED THAT THE JEWS SET IN OUR SAVIOUR'S HAND by WILLIAM ALABASTER ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 27. ENGLAND by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE WATCHERS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TO A YOUNG FRIEND LEARNING TO PLAY THE FLUTE by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |