Love once was like an April dawn:
—Song throbbed within the heart by rote,
And every tint of rose or fawn
—Was greeted by a joyous note.
——How eager was my thought to see
——Into that morning mystery!

Love now is like an August noon,
—No spot is empty of its shine;
The sun makes silence seem a boon,
—And not a voice so dumb as mine.
——Yet with what words I'd welcome thee—
——Couldst thou return, dear mystery!