The Rendezvous

She will come? She will not come?
The passing cloud declares she will;
The quiet tree, no longer dumb,
Beckons, — She comes not; wait her still.

She will come? She will not come?
The sunlit paths with promise thrill
And file away; but waters drum
Across the lake — No, wait her still.

She will come? She will not come?
My heart is resolute she will;
But, hush, these murmurs troublesome —
She will not come — Await her still.
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