Poem by Walter John De la Mare

In Vain

I knocked upon thy door ajar,
While yet the woods with buds were grey;
Nought but a little child I heard
    Warbling at break of day.

I knocked when June had lured her rose
To mask the sharpness of its thorn;
Knocked yet again, heard only yet
    Thee singing of the morn.

The frail convolvulus had wreathed
Its cup, but the faint flush of eve
Lingered upon thy Western wall;
    Thou hadst no word to give.

Once yet I came; the winter stars
Above thy house wheeled wildly bright;
Footsore I stood before thy door—
    Wide open into night.

1. The Horseman
2. Vain Finding
3. Napoleon
4. The Phantom
5. Foreboding

Ella Wilcox In Vain ("The artist looks down on his canvass") 1871

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