Yet oft, indeed, through days that gave no sign
    Had but Francesca turned about and read
  Paolo’s bright eyes that only dared to shine
    On the dear gold that glorified her head;
    Ere all the light had from their circles fled
  And the grey Honour darkened all his face: 
    They had not come to June and nothing said,
  Day followed day with such an even pace,
Nor night succeeded night and left no starry trace.

  Or, surely, had the flower Paolo pressed
    In some sweet volume when he put it by. 
  Told how his mistress drew it to her breast
    And called upon his name when none was nigh;
    Had but the scarf he kissed with piteous cry
  But breathed again its secret unto her,
    Or had but one of every little sigh
  Each left for each been love’s true messenger: 
They surely had not kept that winter all the year.

  Yea! love lay hushed and waiting like a seed,
    Some laggard of the season still abed
  Though the sun calls and gentle zephyrs plead,
    And Hope that waited long must deem it dead;
    Yet lo! to-morrow sees its shining head
  Singing at dawn ’mid all the garden throng: 
    Ah, had it known, it had been earlier sped—­
  Was it for fear of day it slept so long,
Or were its dreams of singing sweeter than the song?

  But what poor flower can symbol all the might
    And all the magnitude, great Love, of thee? 
  Ah, is there aught can image thee aright
    In earth or heaven, how great or fair it be? 
    We watch the acorn grow into the tree,
  We watch the patient spark surprise the mine,
    But what are oaks to thy Ygdrasil-tree? 
  What the mad mine’s convulsive strength to thine,
That wrecks a world but bids heaven’s soaring steeples shine?

  A god that hath no earthly metaphor,
    A blinding word that hath no earthly rhyme,
  Love! we can only call and no name more;
    As the great lonely thunder rolls sublime,
    As the great sun doth solitary climb,
  And we have but themselves to know them by,
    Just so Love stands a stranger amid Time: 
  The god is there, the great voice speaks on high,
We pray, ‘What art thou, Lord?’ but win us no reply.

  So in the dark grew Love, but feared to flower,
    Dreamed to himself, but never spake a word,
  Burned like a prisoned fire from hour to hour,
    Sang his dear song like an unheeded bird;
    Waiting the summoning voice so long unheard,
  Waiting with weary eyes the gracious sign
    To bring his rose, and tell the dream he dared,
  The tremulous moment when the star should shine,
And each should ask of each, and each should answer
     —­’Thine.’

  Winter to-day, but lo! to-morrow spring! 
    They waited long, but oh at last it came,
  Came in a silver hush at evening;
    Francesca toyed with threads upon a frame,
    Hard by young Paolo read of knight and dame
  That long ago had loved and passed away: 
    He had no other way to tell his flame,
  She dare not listen any other way—­
But even that was bliss to lovers poor as they.