The Coming of Love

HOW shall I know? Shall I hear Love pass

In the wind that sighs through the poplar tree?

Shall I follow his passing over the grass

By the prisoned scents which his footsteps free?

Shall I wake one day to a sky all blue

And meet with Spring in a crowded street?

Shall I open a door and, looking through,

Find, on a sudden, the world more sweet?

How shall I know?— last night I lay

Counting the hours’ dreary sum

With naught in my heart save a wild dismay

And a fear that whispered, “Love is come!”