The Lover Waiting

It is almost a dance, a shining whisper.
She knows he will come to her.

She sits by the light of the fire
That has not the heat of her own desire.

She brushes back her golden hair,
Which than sunrise is more fair.

She sways gently from side to side.
To quell this impatience she has tried.

But she can dance to moving flames,
And forget for a moment the names

Of herself and even the one she loves,
Pretend there is nothing else below or above.

Her hand rises, the white and golden one,
To tangle in her hair like moon and sun

Caught in a net of the golden night
That comes at times when autumn bright

Lingers in the world beyond its time.
Her lips chant a soft love rhyme,

Her blue eyes filled with the fire's dance.
Her curls around her fingers prance.

She turns her head as she hears him.
She rises, a tall figure and a slim,

And hastens to the window-glass,
Through which, it seems, her hope has passed,

And finds him waiting, pale as moon.
Like a butterfly emerged from cocoon,

Their love bursts over them once again,
Fairest of women, most loving of men.