The Brookside

Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton (1809–1885)

I WANDERED by the brookside,

I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow,—

The noisy wheel was still;

There was no burr of grasshopper,

No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree;

I watched the long, long shade,

And, as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;

For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word,—

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,—no, he came not,—

The night came on alone,—

The little stars sat, one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirred,—

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,

When something stood behind;

A hand was on my shoulder,—

I knew its touch was kind:

It drew me nearer,—nearer,—

We did not speak one word,

For the beating of our own hearts

Was all the sound we heard.