THE wild wind wails in the poplar tree, <br />I sit here alone. <br />O heart of my heart, come hither to me! <br />Come to me straight over land and sea, <br />My soul--my own! <br /> <br /> <br />Not now--the clock's slow tick I hear, <br />And nothing more. <br />The year is dying, the leaves are sere, <br />No ghost of the beautiful young crowned year <br />Knocks at my door. <br /> <br /> <br />But one of these nights, a wild, late night, <br />I, waiting within, <br />Shall hear your hand on the latch--and spite <br />Of prudence and folly and wrong and right, <br />I shall let you in.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/surrender-ii/
