HIS LOVE’S FRUITION.
“Come, Love, be mine,” the boy implored;
And from his fresh young heart there pour’d
Full streams of life that flush’d his face
And thrill’d his breast for Love’s embrace.
“Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied;
“The worth of boyhood must be tried.”
So, like the spring’s uncertain sun,
Love lured his hope; but was not won.
“Come, Love, be mine,” the young man pray’d,
As if some angel were the maid;
And could with bliss have knelt beside
The only power that awed his pride.
“Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied;
“For vintage-time must life provide.”
So brightly, like a summer-sun,
Love cheer’d his way; but was not won.
“Come, Love, be mine,” the strong man urged;
“The mounts above in cloud are merged;
And, hand in hand with thee, my life
Will better brave the looming strife.”
“Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied,
“The harvests wait; the fields are wide.”
So, clouded like an autumn-sun,
Love veil’d her light, and was not won.
“Come, Love, be mine,” the old man said;
And meekly bow’d his whiten’d head;
Then, while it sank against his breast,
“O Love, has life not won its rest?”
“I come,” his Love at last replied;
And clasp’d him; but he only sigh’d.
And, faint and chill, life’s wintry sun
In gold had set; his Love was won.