I think thou waitest, Love, beyond the Gate--
Eager, with wind-stirred ripples in thy hair;
I have not found thee, and the hour is late,
And harsh the weight I bear. Far have I sought, and flung my wealth of years
Like a young traveler, gay at careless inns--
See how the wine-stain whitens 'neath the tears
My burden wins! And wilt thou know me, Love, with bended back,
Or wilt thou scorn me, in so drear a guise?
I have a wealth of sorrows in my pack,
One lonely prize-- Thy dream--and dross of sin.. O, dim the fields--
I may not find thee in so dark a land--
Yet I await what hope the turning yields
And beg with empty hand.