Why am I wakeful thinking of you in the night,
You whom I no longer love,
You who love me no more?
Yet if you would turn the handle of my door
And stand before me white,
Like a young dove,
For just a little while
I think I would look up and smile.

What are these thoughts of you that strangle me
In this silent midnight hour?
Memories, dreams that cloud my eyes
And with strange torture rise,
Mocking my misery.
Somehow I wonder if the flower
Of old-time joy would burst to flame
If, dear, you came.

Yea, if you stood beside me in the night,
You whom I no longer love,
You who love me no more,
I would give you my hands as before,
And tremble with delight.
No thought would I have of
The years our hearts were dumb.
If you should come.

(And at this moment you are wakeful, too,
Thinking of me, as I, of you.)