MY love is coming through green fields to me—
Why does she tarry so?
She knows I wait on cliffs above the sea,
And dare not to her go;
For I am prisoned to the spot where love
Has chained my feet, and must not call or move.
My love is gath’ring harebells, where the mead
Is starred with flowers to kiss
Her ling’ring feet; there sedges intercede,
And whisper runes of bliss—
Beseeching her to stay and heed me not—
For she can make a heaven of any spot!
My love is list’ning to the skylark’s song,
Delight is in her ears.
She cannot know her lover yearns so long,
And drinks his salty tears
To quench his thirst for all her winsome grace—
Her absence makes a desert of the place.
My love is drinking in the air which blows
The perfumes of the sea,
The journeying breeze wafts past me—well she knows—
Her lovely eyes, the yearning west would woo,
Look not on me while blooms in green fields sue.
She knows ’tis deathless love that holds me fast,
Chained to this rock so grim;
That I shall wait for her, until the last
Sun sets o’er ocean’s rim.
That flowers shall die and green fields fade and sear,
Ere I forsake the tryst to greet her here.