I dreamed that love came, as the oak trees grow,
By the chance dropping of a tiny seed;
And then from moon to moon with steady speed,
Tho’ torn by winds and chilled with heedless snow,
The sap of pulsing life would upward flow,
‘ Till in its might the heavens themselves could read
Portents of power that they must learn to heed.
This was my dream — the waking proved not so —
For love came like a flower, and grew apace;
I saw it blossom tenderly and frail
Till the dear Spring had run its eager race,
Then the rough wind tossed wide the petals red;
The seeds fell far in soil beyond my pale.
I know not, now, if love be lost, or dead.