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.