Love, Love, can the lute lure the old-time touch
Unto fingers forgetful of melody?
And we, who have loved for a time overmuch,
Bring back the old life as it used to be?
Nay, though there is little in me to love,
Come back as the bird to a songless bough:
Back now as you came when the blue was above,
And summer gleamed soft on your girlish brow.
Come home, O Heart, for the autumn is grey,
And I, who have looked for your coming so long,