And wander forth with fever'd blood,
That makes me start at little things,
The blackbird screaming from the wood,
The sudden whirr of pheasants' wings.
O! dearest, scarcely seen by me—
But when that wild time had gone by,
And in these arms I folded thee,
Who ever thought those days could die?
Yet now I wait, and you wait too,
For what perchance may never come;
You think I have forgotten you,
That I grew tired and went home.
But what if some day as I stood
Against the wall with strained hands,
And turn'd my face toward the wood,
Away from all the golden lands;
And saw you come with tired feet,
And pale face thin and wan with care,
And stained raiment no more neat,
The white dust lying on your hair:—
Then I should say, I could not come;
This land was my wide prison, dear;
I could not choose but go; at home
There is a wizard whom I fear:
He bound me round with silken chains
I could not break; he set me here
Above the golden-waving plains,
Where never reaper cometh near.
