He will not come, and still I wait. 
He whistles at another gate 
Where angels listen. Ah I know 
He will not come, yet if I go 
How shall I know he did not pass 
barefooted in the flowery grass? 

The moon leans on one silver horn 
Above the silhouettes of morn, 
And from their nest-sills finches whistle 
Or stooping pluck the downy thistle. 
How is the morn so gay and fair 
Without his whistling in its air? 
The world is calling, I must go. 
How shall I know he did not pass 
Barefooted in the shining grass?