Oh haste thee, Sweet! Impatient now I wait,
The crescent moon swings low,— it groweth late,—
A night-bird sings of Life, and Love, and Fate!—
Oh haste, my Sweet! Youth and its gladness goes;
Joy hath one summer time — like to the rose
Love only, lives through all the winter's snows.
So haste, my Sweet! These hours are all our own:
But see!— A rose-leaf on the night-wind blown,—
For thee I wait — for thee I wait alone!—
So haste, my Sweet!