Something tapped on the pane of my room
When there was never a trace
Of wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom
My weary Beloved's face

"O I am tired of waiting," she said
"Night, morn, noon, afternoon;
So cold it is in my lonely bed
And I thought you would join me soon!"

I rose and neared the window-glass
But vanished thence had she:
Only a pallid moth, alas
Tapped at the pane for me