Classic Poem

When I came back upon that night in May
I found the gilly flowers were still in bloom
In their low vase; untouched, unchanged the room,
None dead, and none grown older, none away.
And strange it seemed to one who had been blown
Through desert heats, and hurtled like a stone
Along the cold lanes of a Polar sea,
For endless æons, nowhere and alone
Until there was no more, no more of me.
And I lay still, escaped and unpossessed
Of mysterious You, and not so terribly near;
I could run from you and dance, who all the year
Had housed one small, strange, and unwelcome guest.

I never thought of you!
Being so thankful to resume the Spring.
You were but a Cry, a small, dark, wrinkled thing;
You looked so old, so wise, as if you knew
I had been afraid and had not wanted you.
But as a bud its wintry habit slips—
Comes to flower very slowly in the sun,
Shakes off the huskings and the look of the mould,
Like a crinkled leaf you started to unfold.
Small tendril hands you hooked till you became
Once more of me the deepest, strangest part;
But I acknowledge the imperious claim,
For now like mistletoe you tempt my lips,
Sweet parasite, whose roots are in my heart!