Her thought that, like a brook beside the way,
Sang to my steps through all the wandering year,
Has ceased from melody — O Love, allay
My sudden fear!
She cannot fail — the beauty of that brow
Could never flower above a desert heart —
Somewhere beneath, the well-spring even now
Lives, though apart.
Some day, when winter has renewed her fount
With cold, white-folded snows and quiet rain,
O Love, O Love, her stream again will mount
And sing again!