Love is no bird that nests and flies,
No rose that buds and blooms and dies,
No star that shines and disappears,
No fire whose ashes strew the years:
Love is the god who lights the star,
Makes music of the lark’s desire,
Love tells the rose what perfumes are,
And lights and feeds the deathless fire.
Love is no joy that dies apace
With the delight of dear embrace—
Love is no feast of wine and bread,
Red-vintaged and gold-harvested:
Love is the god whose touch divine
On hands that clung and lips that kissed,
Has turned life’s common bread and wine
Into the Holy Eucharist.
THE APPEAL
All summer-time you said:
“Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness,
For all the flowers take pity on his blindness,
And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.”
“He is a king,” you said.
“That I bow not the knee will never grieve him,
For all the summer-palaces receive him.”
But now Love has not where to lay his head.
“He is a god,” you said.
“His altars are wherever roses blossom.”
And summer made his altar of her bosom,
But now the altar is ungarlanded.
Take back the words you said:
Out in the rain he shivers broken-hearted;
Summer who bore him has with tears departed,
And o’er her grave he weeps uncomforted.
And you, for all you said,
Would weep too, if when dawn stills the wind’s riot,
You found him on your threshold, pale and quiet,
Clasped him at last, and found the child was dead.