Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward


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Coldly the night-wind shivers on the hill-top,
Cold crawls the pale-faced fog from off the sea;
Tossed by the one, and blinded by the other,
Turn I my late steps longing unto thee!

Warm as thy glad hand, held in silence towards me,
Shines out thy window's light across the lea;
Warm as a flower waiting for the south-wind,
So waits thy sweet face sheltered there for me.

Wild as the gale, and like the mist pervading
The soul of the dark night, and the soul of me,
Hoping or hopeless, for living or for dying,
Turn I my late love forever unto thee!

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