Abbie Farwell Brown

The Tryst

A TRYST had I with the bright sun to keep
Upon a little hill-top in the dew;
I promised him to wake mine eyes from sleep
And see him paint the dappled dawn anew,—
To meet him by the rose-bush in the brake,
Aye, e'en before the lark should be awake.
I gave my promise as the sun sank red,
And then I softly stole away to bed.