My door is always left ajar,
Lest you should suddenly slip through,
A little breathless frightened star;
Each footfall sets my heart abeat,
I always think it may be you,
Stolen in from the street.

My ears are evermore attent,
Waiting in vain for one blest sound--
The little frock, with lilac scent,
That used to whisper up the stair;
Then in my arms with one wild bound--
Your lips, your eyes, your hair.
Never the south wind through the rose,
Brushing its petals with soft hand,
Made such sweet talking as your clothes,
Rustling and fragrant as you came,
And at my aching door would stand--
Then vanish into flame.