As much as common men can love a flower Unto Lanciotto was Francesca dear, 'Tis not on such Love wields his jealous power; And therefore Paolo moved him not to fear, Though he so green with youth and he so sere. Nor yet indeed was wrong, the hidden thing Grew at each heart, unknown of each, a year,-- Two eggs still silent in the nest through spring, May draws so near to June, and not yet time to sing! Yet oft, indeed, through days that gave no sign Had but Francesca turned about and read Paolo's bright eyes that only dared to shine On the dear gold that glorified her head; Ere all the light had from their circles fled And the grey Honour darkened all his face: They had not come to June and nothing said, Day followed day with such an even pace, Nor night succeeded night and left no starry trace. Or, surely, had the flower Paolo pressed In some sweet volume when he put it by. Told how his mistress drew it to her breast And called upon his name when none was nigh; Had but the scarf he kissed with piteous cry But breathed again its secret unto her, Or had but one of every little sigh Each left for each been love's true messenger: They surely had not kept that winter all the year. Yea! love lay hushed and waiting like a seed, Some laggard of the season still abed Though the sun calls and gentle zephyrs plead, And Hope that waited long must deem it dead; Yet lo! to-morrow sees its shining head Singing at dawn 'mid all the garden throng: Ah, had it known, it had been earlier sped-- Was it for fear of day it slept so long, Or were its dreams of singing sweeter than the song? But what poor flower can symbol all the might And all the magnitude, great Love, of thee? Ah, is there aught can image thee aright In earth or heaven, how great or fair it be? We watch the acorn grow into the tree, We watch the patient spark surprise the mine, But what are oaks to thy Ygdrasil-tree? What the mad mine's convulsive strength to thine, That wrecks a world but bids heaven's soaring steeples shine? A god that hath no earthly metaphor, A blinding word that hath no earthly rhyme, Love! we can only call and no name more; As the great lonely thunder rolls sublime, As the great sun doth solitary climb, And we have but themselves to know them by, Just so Love stands a stranger amid Time: The god is there, the great voice speaks on high, We pray, 'What art thou, Lord?' but win us no reply.