Where does love go when it absconds from hearts;
Is it the quiet moaning of the wind?
Perhaps the sad lament of summer showers,
Or angry brace of distant thunders’ din?
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 so mete pallor to the rising moon?
No! Loves’ pursuit is ever noble things,
In every act of kindness it resides;
It dwells in happy songs that children sing,
In warm embrace and smiles, it too abides;
Though love may seem to leave, it is not gone,
And hearts that now do grieve, shall smile anon.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.