My Lady Waits for Me.

Suggested by a popular German melody.




My lady waits!--'Tis now the hour
    When morn unbars her gates!--
My vessel glides beneath the tower
    Where now my lady waits.
Her signal flutters from the wall,
    Above the friendly sea!
I life but to obey her call!
    My lady waits for me.
My lady waits--for me she waits,
While morning opes her golden gates.

My lady waits!--No fairer flower
    E'er deck'd the floral grove,
Than she, the pride of hall and bower,
    The lady of my love!
The eastern hills are flecked with light,
    The land-breeze curls the sea!
By love and truth sustained, for flight,
    My lady waits for me.
My lady waits--for me she waits,
While morning opes her golden gates.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Croton Ode.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Silent Grief.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Epigram. On Reading Grim's Attack Upon Clinton.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Poetry.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Tis Now the Promised Hour. A Serenade.

The fountains serenade the flowers,
    Upon their silver lute--
And, nestled in their leafy bowers,
    The forest-birds are mute:
The bright and glittering hosts above
    Unbar their golden gates,
While Nature holds her court of love,
    And for her client waits.
Then, lady, wake--in beauty rise!
    'Tis now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
    To light thee to thy bower.
The day we dedicate to care--
    To love the witching night;
For all that's beautiful and fair
    In hours like these unite.
E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given--
    The moonlight on the tree--
And all the bliss of earth and heaven--
    Are mingled, love, in thee.
Then, lady, wake--in beauty rise!
    'Tis now the promised hour,
Wh...

George Pope Morris

Words

Adapted to a Spanish Melody.




My lady hath as soft a hand
As any queen in fairy-land;
And, hidden in her tiny boot,
As dainty and as light a foot.
                    Her foot!
Her little hand and foot!

No star that kindles in the sky
Burns brighter than my lady's eye;
And ne'er before did beauty grace
So fair a form, so sweet a face!
                    Her face!
Her gentle form and face!

My lady hath a golden heart,
Free from the dross of worldly art;
Which, in the sight of heaven above,
Is mine with all its hoarded love!
                    Her love!
Her boundless wealth of love!

George Pope Morris

A Ballade Of Waiting.

No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought
So rich as the arms of my love can be;
No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught
Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly.
Dear lady of love, be kind to me
In days when the waters of hope abate,
And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught
No glitter of wile or traitorie,
More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,
Or the heart of a crimson peony;
Oh turn not its beauty away from me;
To kiss it and cling to it early and late
Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Rich hair that a painter of old had sought
For the weaving of some soft phantasy,
Most fair when ...

Archibald Lampman

Venetian Serenade.

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--Arise
And shame the bright stars
    With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice--
    Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water--
    My gondola's near!

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
    We'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
    A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
    Sings to the rose.

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--The day
Brings warder and cloister!
    Away, then--away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!
    Not yon star above
Is more true to heaven
    Then he to his love!

George Pope Morris

Praise Of My Lady

My lady seems of ivory
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be
Hollow'd a little mournfully.
            Beata mea Domina!

Her forehead, overshadow'd much
By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Not greatly long my lady's hair,
Nor yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crispèd wonderfully:
            Beata mea Domina!

Heavy to make the pale face sad,
And dark, but dead as though it had
Been forged by God most wonderfully
            Beata mea Domina!

Of some strange metal, thread by thread,
To stand out from my lady's head,
Not moving much to tangle me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Beneath her brows the lids fal...

William Morris

Impatience.

        How can I wait until you come to me?
    The once fleet mornings linger by the way,
        Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee
    At my unrest; they seem to pause, and play
    Like truant children, while I sigh and say,
    How can I wait?

        How can I wait? Of old, the rapid hours
    Refused to pause or loiter with me long;
        But now they idly fill their hands with flowers,
    And make no haste, but slowly stroll among
    The summer blooms, not heeding my one song,
    How can I wait?

        How can I wait? The nights alone are kind;
    They reach forth to a future day, and bring
        Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind;
    And time speeds by on light and airy wing.
    I feast upon your face, I no m...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox