SONNET.

TO me at end of each dull, weary day

Night comes like handmaid in the house of death,

With muffled step and quiet hand to lay

Her pall upon me; for at sleep's first breath

Against my cheek swift dreaming do I fly

To keep the tryst that only lovers may

Whom Death in pity has not cruelly

Parted. For Death has in his hateful sway

Robbed me of her whose love to me was all,

Well knowing he, with such a hostage, soon

Could bring me willing captive to his thrall;

Yet jealous has he grown of me, the boon

I beg of him with many a sigh and moan

He will not grant, but keeps me here alone.

Y.