THE wild wind wails in the poplar tree, br I sit here alone. br O heart of my heart, come hither to me! br Come to me straight over land and sea, br My soul--my own! br br br Not now--the clock's slow tick I hear, br And nothing more. br The year is dying, the leaves are sere, br No ghost of the beautiful young crowned year br Knocks at my door. br br br But one of these nights, a wild, late night, br I, waiting within, br Shall hear your hand on the latch--and spite br Of prudence and folly and wrong and right, br I shall let you in.