Part 2 — CLXII

I wander'd by the brook-side, I wander'd by the mill,— I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, Nor chirp of any bird; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watch'd the long, long shade. And as it grew still longer I did not feel afraid; For I listen'd for a foot-fall, I listen'd for a word,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not,—no, he came not; The night came on alone; The little stars sat one by one Each on his golden throne; The evening air pass'd by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr'd,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When some one stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer, nearer; We did not speak a word,— For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.