He walks her to her door, at top the steps,
From where they stepped together out before,
But one now enters in and leaves his lips
Not kissed, while waiting lonely at her door.

No door or distance hushed for her his calls;
Between them both are all her sweeter years.
Her head in timeless sorrow leans and falls
Without his shoulder to console her tears.

O dreadful longing wait, while seasons pass,
Through spring the flowers bloom then dry and then
Fall softly with the snow. His tears turned glass
In bitter cold, but still, he waits no end.

A moment’s tear might be a moment’s wait,
But seasoned wounds prove: love is never late.