You have not search’d, as I have, through the world”—
“Nay, sister, I have not,” I said.
Then she—
“Quite right: and cannot yet know love, true love.
Kept close at school you were, and hard it was;
And harder still to-day that you must wait,
As I have done,—at your age too. But yet
Right love is ripe love. Life must be exposed
In sun and storm—to frost and bruising too:
The fruit grows mellow by and by alone.”