STILLBORN LOVE

The hour which might have been yet might not be,

Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore

Yet whereof life was barren,— on what shore

Bides it the breaking of Time's weary sea?

Bondchild of all consummate joys set free,

It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before

The house of Love, hears through the echoing door

His hours elect in choral consonancy.

But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand

Together tread at last the immortal strand

With eyes where burning memory lights love home?

Lo! how the little outcast hour has turned

And leaped to them and in their faces yearned:—

‘ I am your child: O parents, ye have come!’