I MIND , love, how it ever was this way:
That I would to my task; and soon I'd hear
Your little fluttering sigh, and you would say,
“It's bed-time, dear.”

So you would go and leave me at my work;
And I would turn to it with steady will,
And wonder why the room had grown so dark,
The night so chill.

Betimes I'd hear the whisper of your feet
Upon the stair; and you would come to me,
All rosy from your dreams, and take your seat
Upon my knee.

“Poor, tired boy!” you'd say. But I would miss
The lonely message of your eyes, and so
Proffer the hasty bribery of a kiss,
And let you go.

But now, dear heart, that you have scaled the stair
To that dim chamber far above the sun,
I fumble with my futile task, nor care
To get it done.

For all is empty since you said good-night
(So spent you were, and weary with the day!)
And on the hearth the ashes of delight
Lie cold and gray.

Ah, sweet my love, could I but wish you down
In that white raiment which I know you wear;
And hear once more the rustle of your gown
Upon the stair;

Could I but have you, drowsily-sweet, to say
The tender little words that once I knew—
How gaily would I put my work away
And go with you.