Though Winter come with dripping skies, And laden winds and strong, Yet I ’ll read summer in her eyes Whose voice is summer’s song. Who grieves because the world is old, Or cares how long it last, If no gray threads are in our gold, The shade our marbles cast, How, creeping near, we may not see? Time’s heirs are Love and I, And spend our minted days—Ah, me! For anything they ’ll buy.
Something, it may be, you and I In some deserted yard will lie Where Memory fades away; Caring no more for Love his dreams, Busy with new and alien themes, The saints and sages say. But let our graves be side by side, So idlers may at evening tide Pause there a moment’s space: “Ah, they were...
Though Winter come with dripping skies, And laden winds and strong, Yet I ’ll read summer in her eyes Whose voice is summer’s song. Who grieves because the world is old, Or cares how long it last, If no gray threads are in our gold, The shade our marbles cast, How, creeping near, we may...
