Come into the garden, Maud

Come into the garden, Maud,
      For the black bat, night, has flown,
    Come into the garden, Maud,
      I am here at the gate alone;
    And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
      And the musk of the roses blown.

    For a breeze of morning moves,
      And the planet of Love is on high,
    Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
      On a bed of daffodil sky,
    To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
      To faint in his light, and to die.

         *       *       *

    There has fallen a splendid tear
      From the passion-flower at the gate.
    She is coming, my dove, my dear;
      She is coming, my life, my fate;
    The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
      And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
    The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
      And the lily whispers, "I wait."

    She is coming, my own, my sweet;
      Were it ever so airy a tread,
    My heart would hear her and beat,
      Were it earth in an earthy bed;
    My dust would hear her and beat,
      Had I lain for a century dead;
    Would start and tremble under her feet,
      And blossom in purple and red.