Even as a child, of sorrow that we
The dead, but little in his heart can find,
Since without need of thought to his clear
Their turn it is to die and his to live:—Even so the winged New Love smiles to
Along his eddying plumes the auroral wind,
Nor, forward glorying, casts one look
Where night-rack shrouds the Old Love fugitive.
There is a change in every hour's recall,
And the last cowslip in the fields we
On the same day with the first corn-poppy.
Alas for hourly change!
Alas for
The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall,
Even as the beads of a told rosary!
