Good Novel
But now I sit with the sighing dead dreams of a dying year;
Like the fallen leaves and the acorns, am worthless and feel as sear,
With a withered soul and body whose heart is one big tear.
As I stare from my window the daylight, like a bravo, its cloak puts on.
The moon, like a cautious lanthorn, glitters and then is gone. -
Will he come to-night? will he answer? - Oh, God! would it were dawn!
9
He enters. Taking her in his arms he speaks.
They said you were dying -
You shall not die!...
Why are you crying?