False Dawn

My apple trees have blossomed in a night, And pale green moonlight bathes their rose and white With a strange wine that makes the pulses throb. A sleepy robin now mistakes the light, And his soft doubting note sounds like a sob Voicing the thought that draws my heart-strings tight.

What Life could give you is not yours to take Nor mine to give--and yet to-night I wake Remembering your giving. But the note Of that moon-haunted robin must not shake My calm belief that you--austere, remote-- Need nothing I can ever mar or make.