Pastoral Song / Richard M. Milnes

The Brook-side
I WANDER’D by the brook-side, I wander’d by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree; I watch’d the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listen’d for a footfall, I listen’d for a word, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not,—no, he came not— The night came on alone, The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening wind pass’d by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr’d, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer—nearer, We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.