The Coming of Love
HOW shall I know? Shall I hear Love pass
In the wind that sighs through the poplar tree?
Shall I follow his passing over the grass
By the prisoned scents which his footsteps free?
Shall I wake one day to a sky all blue
And meet with Spring in a crowded street?
Shall I open a door and, looking through,
Find, on a sudden, the world more sweet?
How shall I know?—last night I lay
Counting the hours’ dreary sum
With naught in my heart save a wild dismay
And a fear that whispered, “Love is come!”