Ad te Domine

O Thou who sendest dewdrops to the garden,
Until each fragrant bud receives its own,
Canst Thou not look on human hearts and pardon
To waiting loneliness its bitter moan?

The flowers can drink the dawn,— it hastens to them;
But hearts athirst wait sadly for their hour,
For the sweet gift that may, perchance, undo them,—
Too fatal sweet a dew for human flower.