Nor any guest of grief surprise,
When Love, sweet Love, was born.

And when he came, O Heart of mine!
And stood within our door,
No joy our dreaming could divine
Was missing from his store.
The thorns shall wound our hearts again,
But not the fear of yore,
for all the guests of grief and pain
Shall serve him evermore.


XIX

Dost thou remember, Dear, the day
We met in those bare woods of May?
Each had a secret unconfessed,
Each sound a promise, in each nest.
Young wings a-tremble for the air,--
How we joined hands?--not knowing where
The springs that touch set free
Should find their sea.
Speechless--so sure we were to share
The unknown good to be.


XX

The woods are bare again. There are