dream of the sudden splendour of thy arrival,—with all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy ear, and they at the roadside standing agape when they see thee come down from thye seat to raise me from the dust and sit at thy side this ragged beggar girl atremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze.
But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And is it only I who should wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing?
