Thursday, February 2, 2017

TOO LATE, a poem

THE words of love I never said to thee
          I whisper now,
The tenderness I might have given thee
          I offer now,
As at thy feet, who hopeless knelt to me,
          I, hopeless, bow.

The wintry bush in yonder hedgerow growing,
          A rose adorns,
And near and far are snowy clusters blowing,
          Where late were thorns;
But still my heart, nor bud nor blossom knowing,
          Unpitied mourns.

I see the bird that to his mate is winging—
          His mate so dear,
The very heart within his breast is singing
          As he draws near,
And I, O love, too late my love am bringing—
          Thou dost not hear!
"Too Late" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in New Peterson Magazine (February 1894), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume I.

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