Xiii

Dead kisses of the long dead years Have left their mark upon your face, Beneath the sad, harsh winds of age Of many roses now there is no trace.

I see not now your mouth and eyes Gleam, like the birth of morning fair, Nor softly now your head repose Within the dark deep garden of your hair.

Your dear hands that still are sweet Have somehow suffered from the loss Of light about their finger-tips That touched my forehead, like the dawn-kissed moss.

Your body that was fair and young That I did with my thoughts endow, No longer now is fresh as dew, Your arm no longer like the white, clean bough.

All falls, alas, and fades away, All changes now: your voice once smooth, Your body, lowered like a shield To spill the precious victories of youth.

And yet my heart says still with fervent stress: What matter that the years grow heavier? Since I know well that nothing can e'er bound Or trouble our exalted happiness, And that our souls are too profound For love to die for want of loveliness.