TRYST

Somewhere thou awaitest, And I, with lips unkissed, Weep that thus to latest, Thou puttest off our tryst!

The golden bowls are broken, The silver cords untwine; Almond flowers in token Have bloomed,---that I am thine!

Others who would fly thee In cowardly alarms, Who hate thee and deny thee, Thou foldest in thine arms!

How shall I entreat thee No longer to withhold? I dare not go to meet thee, O lover, far and cold!

O lover, whose lips chilling So many lips have kissed, Come, even if unwilling, And keep thy solemn tryst!

By Helen Hunt

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