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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required —Before Love Could Count— The youngest lingered when the household's breath Had lapsed into nocturnal quietude, As one who bears, not petulance, but truth Too weighty for the custody of years, And with a countenance unfortified By any artifice of elder grief, Preferred at last this visitation plain: "Which one dost love the more?" I made no answer; for thy syllables Transgressed the jurisdiction of reply, Descending where the inmost conscience keeps Those unarraigned derelictions of the heart Whose very innocence condemns the more. What imperceptible diminishment, What inadvertent sequestration of My presence, or what uncommemorated hour, Had germinated this clandestine dread Until it flowered beneath thy faithful voice? No chronicle restored that hidden dawn. Remembrance chronicles the visible wound, Yet leaves uncatalogued those noiseless griefs Whose first inception passes unobserved, Until one guileless question rends the veil. Then all my children rose—not serially, As history enumerates mortal years, But in one simultaneous radiance, Each the inaugurator of a love The antecedent self could not conceive. Before you were born, my love had no plural. Not poorer then, but yet inchoate still, For every birth annulled the man before And consecrated one unprecedented, Whose heart acquired, by each nativity, Another unsuspected mode of grace. Come hither. Let no arithmetic profane What Providence hath never taught to count. The rain fell once. The leaves received it separately.
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