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.
XIX
Dost thou remember, Dear, the day
We met in those bare woods of May?
Each had a secret unconfessed,
Each sound a promise, in each nest.
Young wings a-tremble for the air,—
How we joined hands?—not knowing where
The springs that touch set free
Should find their sea.
Speechless—so sure we were to share
The unknown good to be.
XX
The woods are bare again. There are
No secrets now, the bud's a scar;
No promises,—this is the end!
Ah, Dearest, I have seen thee bend
Above thy flowers as one who knew
The dying wood should bloom anew.
Come, let us sleep, Perchance
God's countenance,
Like thine above thy flowers, smiles through
The night upon us two.
VERSES
MY FRIEND
I have a friend who came,—I know not how,
Nor he. Among the crowd, apart,
I feel the pressure of his hand, and hear
In very truth the beating of his heart.
My soul had shut the door of abode,
So poor it seemed for any guest
To tarry there a night,—until he came,
Asking, not entertainment, only rest.