  WHEN the hot wasp hung in the grape last year, And tendrils withered and leaves grew sear, There was little to hope and nothing to fear, And the smouldering autumn sank apace, And my heart was hollow and cold and drear. When the last gray moth that November brings Had folded its sallow and sombre wings, Like the tuneless voice of a child that sings, A music arose in that desolate place, A broken music of hopeless things. But time went by with the month of snows, And the pulse and tide of that music rose; As a pain that fades is a pleasure that grows, So hope sprang up with a heart of grace, And love as a crocus-bud that blows. And now I know when next autumn has dried The sweet hot juice to the grape-skin’s side, And the new wasps dart where the old ones died, My heart will have rest in one luminous face, And its longing and yearning be satisfied. |
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