He will not come, and still I wait. He whistles at another gate Where angels listen. Ah I know He will not come, yet if I go How shall I know he did not pass barefooted in the flowery grass? The moon leans on one silver horn Above the silhouettes of morn, And from their nest-sills finches whistle Or stooping pluck the downy thistle. How is the morn so gay and fair Without his whistling in its air? The world is calling, I must go. How shall I know he did not pass Barefooted in the shining grass?