I sought among the drifting leaves, The golden leaves that once were green, To see if Love were hiding there And peeping out between. For thro the silver showers of May And thro the summers heavy heat, In vain I sought his golden head And light, fast-flying feet. Perhaps when all the world is bare And cruel winter holds the land, The Love that finds no place to hide Will run and catch my hand. I shall not care to have him then, I shall be bitter and a-cold It grows too late for frolicking When all the world is old. Then little hiding Love, come forth, Come forth before the autumn goes, And let us seek thro ruined paths The gardens last red rose.
Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; Lovely Chance