Текст оригинала на английском языке
Leaves from Australian Forests (1869). At Dusk
At dusk, like flowers that shun the day, Shy thoughts from dim recesses break, And plead for words I dare not say For your sweet sake. My early love! my first, my last! Mistakes have been that both must rue; But all the passion of the past Survives for you. The tender message Hope might send Sinks fainting at the lips of speech, For, are you lover—are you friend, That I would reach? How much to-night I'd give to win A banished peace—an old repose; But here I sit, and sigh, and sin When no one knows. The stern, the steadfast reticence, Which made the dearest phrases halt, And checked a first and finest sense, Was not my fault. I held my words because there grew About my life persistent pride; And you were loved, who never knew What love could hide! This purpose filled my soul like flame: To win you wealth and take the place Where care is not, nor any shame To vex your face. I said "Till then my heart must keep Its secrets safe and unconfest;" And days and nights unknown to sleep The vow attest. Yet, oh! my sweet, it seems so long Since you were near; and fates retard The sequel of a struggle strong, And life is hard— Too hard, when one is left alone To wrestle passion, never free To turn and say to you, "My own, Come home to me!"
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