THE COMING

I dreamed that love came, as the oak trees grow, By the chance dropping of a tiny seed; And then from moon to moon with steady speed, Tho' torn by winds and chilled with heedless snow, The sap of pulsing life would upward flow, 'Till in its might the heavens themselves could read Portents of power that they must learn to heed. This was my dream—the waking proved not so— For love came like a flower, and grew apace; I saw it blossom tenderly and frail Till the dear Spring had run its eager race, Then the rough wind tossed wide the petals red; The seeds fell far in soil beyond my pale. I know not, now, if love be lost, or dead.