English poem
Of Love
by Florence Earle Coates (1850–1927)
Of Love the gods require no task, Content to grant whate'er may ask The boy from Venus sprung,— For howsoever grave his mask, They know the lad is young:
Aye, young, indeed! Though, spite of warning, Often at dusk, all prudence scorning, He daring sail unfurls,— Yet, fragrant still, the breath of morning Lingers amid his curls.
What count takes he of days or years?— E'en pain itself but more endears The strange, immortal boy, Who whilst his eyes o'er-brim with tears, Yet keeps the heart of joy!