WHO IS IT THAT ANSWERS?

The clouds no more are flocking
  After the flushing sun;
Bees end their long droning,
  The bat’s hunt is begun;
And the tired wind that went flittering
  Up and down the hill
  Lies like a shadow still,
    Like a shadow still.

Who is it that’s calling
  Out of the deepening dark,
Calling, calling, calling?—­
  No!—­yet hark! 
The sleepy wind wakes, carrying
  Up and down the hill
  A voice how small and still,
    How sweet and still!

Who is it that answers
  Out of a quiet cloud—­
“Stay, oh stay!  I come, I come!”
  Cried at last aloud? 
My voice, my heart went answering
  Up and down the hill—­
  Mine so strange and still,
    Mine grave and still.

WAITING

Rich in the waning light she sat
While the fierce rain on the window spat. 
The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,
Shadows cloaked the narrow place
She sat adream in.  Then she’d look
Idly upon an idle book;
Anon would rise and musing peer
Out at the misty street and drear;
Or with her loosened dark hair play,
Hiding her fingers’ snow away;
And, singing softly, would sing on
When the desire of song had gone. 
“O lingering day!” her bosom sighed,
“O laggard Time!” each motion cried. 
Last she took the lamp and stood
Rich in its flood,
And looked and looked again at what
Her longing fingers’ zeal had wrought;
And turning then did nothing say,
Hiding her thoughts away.

ABSENCE

Distance no grace can lend you, but for me
Distance yet magnifies your mystery. 
With you, and soon content, I ask how should
In your two eyes be hid my heaven of good? 
How should your own mere voice the strange words speak
That tease me with the sense of what’s to seek
In all the world beside?  How your brown hair,
That simply and neglectfully you wear,
Bind my wild thoughts in its abundant snare? 
With you, I wonder how you’re stranger than
Another woman to another man;
But parted—­and you’re as a ship unknown
That to poor castaways at dawn is shown
As strange as dawn, so strange they fear a trick
Of eyes long-vexed and hope with falseness sick. 
Parted, and like the riddle of a dream,
Dark with rich promise, does your beauty seem. 
I wonder at your patience, stirless peace,
Your subtle pride, mute pity’s quick release. 
Then are you strange to me and sweet as light
Or dew; as strange and dark as starless night. 
Then let this restless parting be forgiven: 
I go from you to find in you strange heaven.

SLEEP