Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/444

They may not bear to her
This heart's fond prayer to her,
    Yet—she is mine.

Wind of the winter night,
  Over the fields of snow,
Over the hill so white,
    Tenderly blow!
Somewhere red roses bloom;
Into her warm, hushed room,
    Bear thou their breath.

Whisper—Nay, nay, thou sprite,
  Breathe thou no tender word;
Wind of the winter night,
    Die thou unheard.
True love shall yet prevail,
Telling its own sweet tale:
    Till then I wait.