"I think I hear the sound of horses feet Beating upon the gravelled avenue.

Go to the window that looks on the street, He would not let me die alone, I knew."Back to the couch the patient watcher passed, And said: "It is the wailing of the blast."She turned upon her couch and, seeming, slept, The long, dark lashes shadowing her cheek;And on and on the weary moments crept, When suddenly the watcher heard her speak:

"I think I hear the sound of horses' hoofs--"And answered, "'Tis the rain upon the roofs."Unbroken silence, quiet, deep, profound.

The restless sleeper turns: "How dark, how late!

What is it that I hear--a trampling sound?

I think there is a horseman at the gate."

The watcher turns away her eyes tear-blind:

"It is the shutter beating in the wind."

The dread hours passed; the patient clock ticked on;The weary watcher moved not from her place.

The grey dim shadows of the early dawn Caught sudden glory from the sleeper's face.

"He comes! my love! I knew he would!" she cried;And, smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died.