| Quid no speremus, Amantes? |
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Why is there in the least touch of her hands
More grace than other womens’ lips bestow,
If love is but a slave in fleshly bands
Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go?
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Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours
For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair,
If love may cull his honey from all flowers,
And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere?
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Nay! She is gone, and all things fall apart;
Or she is cold, and vainly have we prayed;
And broken is the summer’s splendid heart,
And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid.
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As man aspires and falls, yet a soul springs
Out of his agony of flesh at last,
So love that flesh enthralls, shall rise on wings
Soul-centred, when the rule of flesh is past.
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Then, most High Love, or wreathed with myrtle sprays,
Or crownless and forlorn, nor less a star,
Thee may I serve and follow, all my days,
Whose thorns are sweet as never roses are!
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