Hark! Down the road he rides not far away,
His horse’s feet compose for me: rumble!
Here I lie awaiting his call all day;
Oh, how he makes a heart feel so humble!
Yet impatient am I, slouched on the sill,
How I gaze off so far into the dark,
He must come, for it is my dying will;
If I must I’ll wait ’til the call of lark.
As I cling the air I am filled with fright,
Oh, how I tremble with bursting terror!
He brings a message from the dark of night;
How can I write? I’m betrothed in error!
But as long as it’s sent, I’ll see his face,
So I shall still write to the lord: “Your Grace.”