The Saturday Evening Post/The Revolt of the Bookkeeper

I'll see Kashmir, and touch at Madagascar; I'll know my way through Venice and Stamboul; I'll watch the white stars blaze above the desert, And vines festooned about a tropic pool.

He loses her who gains her, Who watches day by day The dust of time that stains her, The griefs that leave her gray, The flesh that still enchains her Whose grace has pa sed away.

Oh, happier he who gains not The love some seem to gain: The joys that custom stains not Shall still with him remain; The loveliness that wanes not, The love that cannot wane.