Vi

I had no more imagined love Than dreams the moonflower of its blue. What sun that warmed its shielding glove,-- What long blind eve that gave it dew,

Could tell that hueless folded thing Of shining texture silken-loomed, Or say what marveling birds would sing The morning that it thrilled and bloomed?

Always it knew in groping thought Some end would come, some bloom must be, The blind fulfilment that it wrought Was strained from darkness restlessly;

Till exquisite completion willed The answered bud, the dream put by, And left the flower all sunned, and stilled With sudden wonder of the sky.