The Brookside

I wandered by the brook-side,
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 beside 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 air 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.