A Rare Guest poem – Alfred Austin

Love, that all men think they know,

Is a rare guest here below;

But with mortals when it stays,

These are its unerring ways.

I

Love builds secret, half afraid,

In the covert, in the shade,

Fostering, where none know it is,

Solitary gladnesses.

Pry not on its brooding breast,

Lest it should desert its nest.

Then, all seen, you naught can save;

‘Twas a cradle;-’tis a grave.

II

Love loves tumult closed with rest,

Spreads its wings and bares its breast

To the unrelenting strain

Of the passionate hurricane.

Though its plumes are frayed like foam,

On it presses still for home,

Upward, slowly-onward, fast-

Till, when it descries at last

Tall tops swaying to and fro,

Down it drops to nest below.

Then the wind that rocks the tree

Is to it a lullaby.

III

Fancy talks itself away,

Love hath ever naught to say,

Save again the hushed caress,

And the sweet long silences,

Glistening gaze of trustful eyes,

Where none questions, none replies

Like, enraptured with its lot,

Star that shines but speaketh not.

IV

Men wax rich by thrifty living;

Love is opulent from giving,

Keeps its store from growing less

By unceasing lavishness;

Richest when it squanders all,

Never ruined prodigal.

V

Lastly, Love, if it could choose,

Would not, as gross worldlings use,

Summon smiles and state to be

Sponsors to felicity.

These it fain would keep apart

From the nuptials of the heart,

Or, if they perforce attend,

Find them rather foe than friend.

For, without the world’s disfavour,

Sweet love loses half its savour.

Love, that all men think they know,

Is a rare guest here below;

But with mortals when it stays,

These are its unerring ways.