The Tri Weekly News

POETRY

SOMEBODY'LL COME TO-NIGHT

I must bind my hair with the myrtle bough
And gem it with buds of white,
And drive this blush from my burning brow,
For Somebody'll come to-night;
And, while his eye shall discern a grace
In the braid and the folded tress,
He must not find in my telltale face,
The spell of his wondrous power.
I must don the robe which he fondly calls
A cloud of entrancing light,
And sit where the mellowing moonlight falls.
For somebody'll come to-night;
And while the robes and the blush shall seem
But the veriest freak of chance,
'Tis sweet to know that his eye will beam
With a tenderer, happier glance.

'Twas thus I sang when the years were few
That lay on my girlish head.
And all the flowers that in fancy grew
Were tied with a golden thread.
And somebody came, and the whispers there,
I cannot repeat them quite
But I know my soul went up in prayer,
And somebody's here to-night.
I blush no more at the whispered vow,
Nor sigh in the soft moonlight;
My robe has a tint of amber now,
And I sit by my anthracite;
And the locks that vied with the glossy Wren
Have passed to the silver gray;
But the love that decked them with flowers then
Is a holier love to-day.