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.