A dear old pallid face, night after night, So patient! at the window. Now 'tis dead -- The window, not the face. What fires were fed In those long waitings till I came in sight, And then how flashed dear love's dear beacon light Glad in that glad old face! I should have sped Winged to my waiting lover, but, instead, I met her warmth with chill, her love with slight. And yet I know it is my lover's joy To sit in heaven, somewhere along the way That I shall take, and wait there for her boy. May all the years, dear Lord, be but a day; Peaceful the window where she makes her home; Wait with her, happy angels, till I come! |