THE BROOKSIDE.

I wandered by the brookside,

I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow,--

The noisy wheel was still.

There was no burr of grasshopper,

No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree:

I watched the long, long shade,

And, as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;

For I listened for a footfall,

I listened 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 wind passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirred,--

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

Fast, silent tears were flowing,

When something stood behind:

A hand was on my shoulder,--

I knew its touch was kind:

It drew me nearer--nearer--

We did not speak one word,

For the beating of our own hearts

Was all the sound we heard.

_Richard Monckton Milnes._

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