Surrender II

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THE wild wind wails in the poplar tree,
  I sit here alone.
O heart of my heart, come hither to me!
Come to me straight over land and sea,
  My soul--my own!


Not now--the clock's slow tick I hear,
  And nothing more.
The year is dying, the leaves are sere,
No ghost of the beautiful young crowned year
  Knocks at my door.


But one of these nights, a wild, late night,
  I, waiting within,
Shall hear your hand on the latch--and spite
Of prudence and folly and wrong and right,
  I shall let you in.

© Edith Nesbit