Dusk in the rain-soaked garden, 
And dark the house within. 
A door creaked: someone was early 
To watch the dawn begin. 
But he stole away like a thief 
In the chilly, star-bright air: 
Though the house was shuttered for slumber, 
He had left one wakeful there. 

Nothing moved in the garden. 
Never a bird would sing,
Nor shake and scatter the dew from the boughs 
With shy and startled wing. 
But when that lover had passed the gate 
A quavering thrush began... 
`Come back; come back!? he shrilled to the heart 
Of the passion-plighted man.