Collected poems, 1901-1918/In Vain
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IN VAIN
I KNOCKED upon thy door ajar,
While 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.