Last Song in an Opera

From the apple bough many petals fly tossed of the wind,
Yet goldenly heavy it hangs on blue autumn eves
(All things come unto him whose heart believes).
The dove, though the tempest-swept sun her bright eyes blind,
Beats onward fast.
Till with clapped, sailing wings down at the last
To the loved cote she come.
Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home!

The silver river wanders and circles time out of mind,
Yet turns at length where the sea tosses her smoking sheaves
(All things come unto him whose heart believes).
So golden-feathered Love beats his high course, though blind,
Until that hour
When, downward stooping through the flaming shower,
Into the heart he come.
Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home!