To-Morrow.

But one short night between my Love and me!
    I watch the soft-shod dusk creep wistfully
    Through the slow-moving curtains, pausing by
And shrouding with its spirit-fingers free
    Each well-known chair. There is a growing grace
    Of tender magic in this little place.

Comes through half-opened windows, soft and cool
    As Spring's young breath, the vagrant evening air,
    My day-worn soul is hushed. I fain would bear
No burdens on my brain to-night, no rule
    Of anxious thought; the world has had my tears,
    My thoughts, my hopes, my aims these many years;

This is Thy hour, and I shall sink to sleep
    With a glad weariness, to know that when
    The new day dawns I shall lay by my pen
Needed no more. If I, perchance, should weep
    A few quick tears, so doing, who would guess
    'Twas the last throb of my soul's loneliness?

Not even thou, Dear Heart, canst ever know
    How I have yearned these many months, these years
    For love, for thee. As the calm boatman steers
His slender shallop where he fain would go,
    Tempests and rocks before, so through the dark
    To this dim, far-off day has set my bark.

To-morrow! I can hear the quick-closed door,
    The approaching steps, my pained heart's fluttering,
    Thy voice, then Thee! And all the storm and sting
Of bygone griefs are passed forevermore,
    Swept from my life as the resistless wind
    Scatters the chaff, nor leaves a mote behind.

As long-imprisoned captives reach the light,
    And gaze with greedy eyes on field and tree,
    Drinking the beauties of the sky and sea
Half fearful of their bliss; so from the night
    Of dreams and shades, half doubting, we awake
    And grasp the joy we almost fear to take.

Thou hidest in thy warm ones my cold hand,
    Reading my soul in these unwavering eyes.
    Nay, thou hast known my hopes, my agonies
Through written words, and thou canst understand.
    I have kept nothing back of all the streams
    Of my heart-flowings - doubts, nor fears, nor dreams.

So long my life has followed no control
    But mine own impulse; now, I pray thee, bend
    My will to thine, and so, unhindered, tend
My soul's wild garden. I have laid the whole
    Bare to thy sowing; and life's precious wine
    Is of thy pouring, and thy way is mine.