THE wild wind wails in the poplar tree,
I sit here alone.
O heart of my heart, come hither to me!
Come to me straight over land and sea,
My soul--my own!


Not now--the clock's slow tick I hear,
And nothing more.
The year is dying, the leaves are sere,
No ghost of the beautiful young crowned year
Knocks at my door.


But one of these nights, a wild, late night,
I, waiting within,
Shall hear your hand on the latch--and spite
Of prudence and folly and wrong and right,
I shall let you in.

Edith Nesbit

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/surrender-ii/