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...SONGS FOR TWO SEASONS: 1. AFTER GRAVE ILLNESS by CAROL FROST THE HOUSE OF DREAMS by SARA TEASDALE A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 44 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE WOMAN AND THE ANGEL by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE A LOVE-MESSAGE by LILLIAN CORBETT BARNES PRAISES OF WILTSHIRE by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB TO MY HONOURED FRIEND MASTER THOMAS MAY, UPON HIS COMEDY, 'THE HEIR' by THOMAS CAREW |