UPON the threshold of his guarded home
Stands Love the child.
A thousand roses bloom above his head
With rain of dewy petals white and red;
All fair and joyous things themselves array
To deck and soften for dear Love the way.
He stands where often he has stood before;
But now his face is pale, his eyes all wild,
A strange and boding tread has caught his ear,
An awful, hovering shape sweeps into view,
And all his soul is rent with wrath and fear —
What can Love do?
Poor Love! brave Love! he nerves his feeble arm,
He grasps his bow;
The dreadful guest has seized the rainbow wings.
In vain Love strives with tears and shudderings,
In vain he lifts appealing eyes of prayer;
There is no pity or relenting there.
No power has Love to deprecate or charm,
Vain are his puny wiles against this foe;
The roses wither in the icy breath
Which eddies the defenceless portals through,
And, brushing Love aside, in passes Death —
What can Love do?