Since, for one child's absent sake,

May knows well, whate'er things make

Sport, it is not Maytime.

329 VI

329

A hand at the door taps light

As the hand of my heart's delight:

It is but a full-grown hand,

Yet the stroke of it seems to start

Hope like a bird in my heart,

Too feeble to soar or to stand.

To start light hope from her cover

Is to raise but a kite for a plover

If her wings be not fledged to soar.

Desire, but in dreams, cannot ope

The door that was shut upon hope

When love went out at the door.

Well were it if vision could keep

The lids of desire as in sleep

Fast locked, and over his eyes

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