IN VAIN

I knocked upon thy door ajar,

While yet the woods with buds were grey;

Nought but a little child I heard

Warbling at break of day.

I knocked when June had lured her rose

To mask the sharpness of its thorn;

Knocked yet again, heard only yet

Thee singing of the morn.

The frail convolvulus had wreathed

Its cup, but the faint flush of eve

Lingered upon thy Western wall;

Thou hadst no word to give.

Once yet I came; the winter stars

Above thy house wheeled wildly bright;

Footsore I stood before thy door —

Wide open into night.