Where does love go when it departs from hearts?
Is it the quiet moaning of the wind—
Perhaps the sad lament of summer showers,
Or angry rumble as dark storms begin ?
Does it form clouds to strain the warmth of sun,
Or yet perhaps lay snow upon the loam?
Does fleeing love turn golden leaves to dun,
Or cast pale sorrow o’er the rising moon?
No—love pursues the ever noble things—
In every act of kindness it resides;
It dwells in happy songs that children sing,
And in warm hands or smiling eyes, it hides;
Though love may seem to leave, it is not gone,
And hearts that here now grieve, shall smile anon.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.