Love has no home. He comes with bitter tears,
And taps upon the fast-barred window pane.
None answer him; none heed his sad refrain
Of "Open open!" Maybe no one hears.
Have all forgotten him? I have strange fears.
He loves to listen to the summer rain
Splash the white roses and the pink again,
As oft he listened in the long-stilled years.
O morning minstrel of young joy, take heart!
Some flower-filled hour, when, bathed in fragrant bliss,
The garden glows, some maiden, once too shy,
Leaning from out her casement bright will start,
Tremble and hear, and, hearing, drop a kiss
Lightly - like this! Why should it not be I?
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 19 April 1930
