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Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.

Listen and linger—She yet may find me

In the last faint flush of the waning light—

Never a step on the path behind me;

I must journey alone, to the lonely night.

But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,

A fading figure, with eyes that wait,

Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,

“He cometh never, or comes too late?”

Sir Alfred Lyall.

Too late for love, too late for joy,

Too late, too late!

You loitered on the road too long,

You trifled at the gate:

The enchanted dove upon her branch

Died without a mate;

The enchanted princess in her tower

Slept, died, behind the grate;

Her heart was starving all this while

You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago,

One year ago,

Even then you had arrived in time,

Though somewhat slow;

Then you had known her living face

Which now you cannot know:

The frozen fountain would have leaped,

The buds gone on to blow,

The warm south wind would have awaked

To melt the snow.

Christina Rossetti (The Prince’s Progress).