I

What sapling love was ours those ancient days,

When coyly we attended each new shoot

And greeted every bud with fulsome praise,

Whilst trembling lest it wither in the root.

We knew then nothing of its future course:

That such expectant hope would now be stilled,

And each dead leaf no more bestir remorse,

Nor flower’s lack leave craving unfulfilled.

The friend who knew us then, and knows us still,

Concludes our love’s expired from nurture’s dearth.

Not so; for from a shoot that gusts might kill

Has grown a seasoned tree of solid girth,

That stretches high the heavens to embrace,

And scorns the winds, and laughs in storm-clouds' face.