"Ah, what is Love?" The question softly fell.
Can human tongue the perfect answer tell?
Is it the sunset radiance, or the shade
That steals at twilight down the sleepy glade?
Is it the broken whisper of a prayer
Springing from that meek heart where once despair
Held sway but rules no longer, or the smile
On childlike face that knows nor fear nor guile,—
The song that rises as tears fall the while?
"And where is Love?" The question plaintive grew.
Is it within the rounded drop of dew?
Sighs it among the tree-tops when the morn,
Aflush with joy, laughs at the shadows gone?
Lives it within the heart where hate is dead,
Or on the brow peace-crowned, devoid of dread?
Is it anear, or must we seek afar
For that pure love that recks nor band nor bar?
Is't in the silence that surrounds a star?
"Who knoweth Love?" The question died away
As stills the summer breeze with pining day.
Doth he know Love who binds the broken wing,
Or teaches darksome sorrow how to sing?
Hath he found Love who of a child takes care,
Who with the needy would a last crumb share,
Who treads unfalteringly the stony way,
Bearing the burden of the weak all day,
Then stops at nightfall with the sick to pray?
