SIGH not for love,—the ways of love are dark!
Sweet Child, hold up the hollow of your hand
And catch the sparks that flutter from the star!
See how the late sky spreads in flushing bars!
They are dead roses from your own dear land,
Tossed high by kindly breezes; lean, and hark,
And you shall know how Morning glads her lark!
The timid Dawn, herself a little child,
Casts up shy eyes in loving worship, dear,
Is it not yet enough? The Spring is here,
And would you weep for winter's tempest wild?
Sigh not for love,—the ways of love are dark!

More verses by Helen Hay Whitney

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