Love, the baby, <br />Crept abroad to pluck a flower: <br />One said, Yes, sir; one said, Maybe; <br />One said, Wait the hour. <br /> <br />Love, the boy, <br />Joined the youngsters at their play: <br />But they gave him little joy, <br />And he went away. <br /> <br />Love, the youth, <br />Roamed the country, quiver-laden; <br />From him fled away in sooth <br />Many a man and maiden! <br /> <br />Love, the man, <br />Sought a service all about; <br />But they called him feeble, one <br />They could do without. <br /> <br />Love, the aged, <br />Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles, <br />Read a volume many-paged, <br />Full of tears and smiles. <br /> <br />Love, the weary, <br />Tottered down the shelving road: <br />At its foot, lo, Night, the starry, <br />Meeting him from God! <br /> <br />'Love, the holy,' <br />Sang a music in her dome, <br />Sang it softly, sang it slowly, <br />'Love is coming home!'<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-history/
