Least Love

This small least love of mine, which can but creep
Between the twisted stems of joy and pain,
Is warmed by sun and bathed by every rain.
Last night, transplanted to the fields of sleep,
It blossomed so I could not choose but weep,
Knowing the sweet, familiar scent again.
Mostly it grows unnoticed, fair, and fain
In depths of sunlit air its leaves to steep;

But there are times when every fairer flower
Looks cold, unsympathetic, in my sight;
Then am I glad to turn, in such an hour.
To this my blossom, neither red nor white,
Holding the fragrance of the last warm shower:
But gather it, it fades before the night.