The Lover

From the other world I come back to you,

My locks are uncurled with dripping, drenching dew.

You know the old, whilst I know the new:

But to-morrow you shall know this too.

 

O, not to-morrow into the dark, I pray;

O, not to-morrow, too soon to go away:

Here I feel warm and well-content and gay:

Give me another year, another day.

 

Insert from "The Poor Ghost" by Christina Rossetti

Done