Xxii

Our hearts once burned in joyous days With love as luminous as high, But age to-day has made us weak With faults we dare deny.

Thou dost not nourish us, oh will, By thine ardour in the strife, But soft benevolence alone Colours now our life.

We near thy brink of setting, Love, And try to hide our frailty's pain In banal words and poor discourse Of wisdom slow and vain.

How sad the future then would be, If when our days grow wintrier There flame not forth the memory Of the proud souls we were.