('Ashtaroth')

WE severed in autumn early,

Ere the earth was torn by the plough ;

The wheat and the oats and the barley

Are ripe for the harvest now.

We sunder'd one misty morning,

Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain,

Through the flowers those hills adorning—

Thou comest not back again.

My heart is heavy and weary

With the weight of a weary soul ;

The mid-day glare grows dreary,

And dreary the midnight scroll.

The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle,

'Neath the load of the golden grain ;

I sigh for a mate more fickle—

Thou comest not back again.

The warm sun riseth and setteth,

The night bringeth moist'ning dew,

But the soul that longeth forgetteth

The warmth and the moisture, too ;

In the hot sun rising and setting

There is naught save feverish pain ;

There are tears in the night-dews wetting

Thou comest not back again.

Thy voice in mine ear still mingles

With the voices of whisp'ring trees ;

Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles

At each kiss of the summer breeze ;

While dreams of the past are thronging

For substance of shades in vain,

I am waiting, watching, and longing—

Thou comest not back again.

Waiting and watching ever,

Longing and lingering yet,

Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver,

Winds murmur and waters fret ;

No answer they bring, no greeting,

No speech save that sad refrain,

Nor voice, save an echo repeating—