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vii

THE WAITING WIDOW

In the dark o' the day
He shall come to my door,
He that died far away
From the Irish shore.
I'll make to him the bed,
And tire my widowed head,
When he comes from the dead
In the dark o' the day.
My hands shall drop with myrrh
On door-latch and handle;
My sleeping fire I'll stir
And quench my watchful candle.
I shall be fair and young,
And in my mouth a song.
Oh, 'tis long, long, long,
Till the dark o' the day.
In the dark o' the day
He will come to my door.
No greeting will he say,
But cross my threshold o'er.
My groping hands he'll take;
My heart, long like to break,
With full delight he'll slake
In the dark o' the day.
viii

In the dark o' the day
We shall lie down to sleep;
I will not see the gray
Dawn through the window creep.
I'll hold him to my breast
So close, so dearly pressed,
My life shall be his guest
In the dark o' the day.
My life shall be his guest,
And mine his death shall be,
And lying on his breast
Death shall come sweet to me.
But now I dare not die
Because November's nigh,
And my dear may yet come by
In the dark o' the day.
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