Ad Astra

LOVE, you are late.
Yea, while the roseleaves fall
In showers against the moonlit garden wall,
My firm hand shuts the gate.
The nightingale
Has worn himself with pleading;
The fountains’ silvered tears are interceding,
But what is their avail ?

Love, you are late.
Long stood the postern wide
With all my morning-glories twined ; inside
Bird called to bird for mate.
Noon and the sun, —
The loves of bees and flowers ;
With folded hands unclaimed I marked the hours
That saw my youth undone.

Then evening star
And coming of the moon!
Ah, not too soon, my soul, ah, not too soon
Broke their soft grace afar!
All consecrate,
I chose my white path there,
And took the withered roses from my hair.
Love, you are late, — too late !

Thomas Walsh.