  MY lover comes down the long leafy street Through tenderly falling rain; His footsteps near our portal veer, Go past—then turn again. O can it be he is knocking below, Or here at my door above? So gentle and small it sounds in the hall, So loud in the ear of love. But never a word of love has he said, And never a word crave I, For why should one long for the daylight strong When the dawn is in the sky? O a dewy rose-garden is the house, A garden shut from the sun; The breath of it sweet floats up, as my feet Float down to my waiting one. But if ever a word of love thinks he, It falls from his heart still-born; His hand around bud and thorn. The beautiful soul that is in him turns His beautiful face agleam; My own soul flies to feast in his eyes, Where the silent love-words teem. Our talk is of books, and of thoughts and moods, Of the wild flowers in the rain; And he leans his cheek, when we do not speak, On his chair where my hand had lain. Yet never a word of love does he say, And never a word crave I; For the faint green May would wither away At the quick touch of July. And at last—at last we look our last, And the dim day grows more dim; But his eyes still shine in these eyes of mine, And my soul goes forth with him. For though not a word of love does he say, Still never a word crave I; For the words of earth are of little worth When a song drops out of the sky. |
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