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Sara Teasdale

The Love That Goes A-Begging

Oh Loves there are that enter in,

And Loves there are that wait,

And Loves that sit a-weeping

Whose joy will come too late.

For some there be that ope their doors,

And some there be that close,

And Love must go a-begging,

But whither, no one knows.

His feet are on the thorny ways,

And on the dew-cold grass,

No ears have ever heard him sing,

No eyes have seen him pass.

And yet he wanders through the world

And makes the meadows sweet,

For all his tears and weariness

Have flowered beneath his feet.

The little purple violet

Has marked his wanderings,

And in the wind among the trees,

You hear the song he sings.