IN VAIN
Reading edition
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.