The Tryst

A TRYST had I with the bright sun to keep
Upon a little hill-top in the dew;
I promised him to wake mine eyes from sleep
And see him paint the dappled dawn anew,—
To meet him by the rose-bush in the brake,
Aye, e'en before the lark should be awake.
I gave my promise as the sun sank red,
And then I softly stole away to bed.

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 24, Issue 5 (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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