A passing mood

You say not that you love me, yet 'tis so.
Your mood is such the days in April wear,
Driving their last flakes down the ashen air,
And yet with all their buds ready to blow;
Aye, with full-blossomed stalks in many a row,
Purpling the grass beneath the hedges bare.
Therefore I wait. As sure as April fair,
Grown bolder, knows its boughs bear bloom, not snow;
So you, who halt betwixt the old and new,
Will know your life's sweet, settled weather come,
And marvel how the blessed thing befell —
How love from out the chill of friendship grew.
Ah, then no longer, love, will you keep dumb;
Caught to my heart you must your secret tell.