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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. |