Classic Poem

Low in the valley the wreathing mist
Tells its tale of the year grown old;
A slanting beam on the hill has kissed
The beeches' russet, the birches' gold:
As I stand and gaze from the faded grass
Up to the faint October blue,
Line above line the wildfowl pass,
Winging westward from me to you.

Lady mine, is it fault of mine,
Or deed of yours, that we stand asunder?
Fanciful Chance, or high Design? —
Do you ever spare me a thought, I wonder?
Pity, perhaps, for a life forlorn, —
Fortune of war as a queen bewails;
And ever so little a shade of scorn, —
A woman's scorn for the man who fails.

Lady mine, to your windswept home, —
Ice from the north, and balm from the west,
Let never a blast of memory come
To trouble the smooth of your perfect breast;
Never a flying shadow of blame
The fearless breadth of your brow shall cross;
Say that we played at a summer's game, —
Mine the blunder, and mine the loss.

Perhaps at your " Yes " I tried to snatch
Too soon for the pride that your spirit owns;
Perhaps my ear was too dull to catch
Your character's subtlest semitones:
But listen, — be light or heavy the load,
Summer or winter, early or late,
I shall watch your footsteps down the road,
Till you turn and beckon, I stand and wait.