XVIII
We thought when Love at last should come,
The rose would lose its thorn,
And every lip but Joy's be dumb
When Love, sweet Love, was born;
That never tears should start to rise,
No night o'ertake our morn,
Nor any guest of grief surprise,
When Love, sweet Love, was born.
And when he came, O Heart of mine!
And stood within our door,
No joy our dreaming could divine
Was missing from his store.
The thorns shall wound our hearts again,
But not the fear of yore,
for all the guests of grief and pain
Shall serve him evermore.