IMPERIA

Yet the woods with buds were grey;
Nought but a little child I heard
Warbling at break of day.

I knocked when June had lured her rose
To mask the sharpness of its thorn;
Knocked yet again, heard only yet
Thee singing of the morn.
,
The frail convolvulus had wreathed
Its cup, but the faint flush of eve
Lingered upon thy Western wall;
Thou hadst no word to give.
,
Once yet I came; the winter stars
Above thy house wheeled wildly bright;
Footsore I stood before thy door--
Wide open into night.