THE APPEAL.
Reading edition
Cold, bitter cold beneath the wild March moon, The winter snow lies on my frozen breast; And o'er my head the cypress branches croon A sad and ceaseless dirge, and break my rest.
I hear the bell chime in the dark church tower, The rising wind, a passer's hasty tread; But no voice wakes the silence, hour by hour, Among the uncompanionable dead.
Perchance they lie in deep, unconscious calm, Regretting nothing in the world above; Alas! for me it has not lost its charm— There is no peace where thou art not, my love!
Oh! bid me come to thee, and I will rise From my unquiet couch and steal to thine, And touch thy cheek, and kiss thy sleeping eyes, And clasp thee, as of old, till morning shine!
And I will murmur in thy drowsy ears Sweet utterances of love and olden song, Till thou shalt half awake in blissful tears, And cry "My love, why hast thou staid so long?"
Charles Lotin Hildreth.