CVI

TO thee all life is but a passing pleasure, No deeper than the thought within thy mind; And thy short love is of a lighter kind Than that which bringeth to my heart its measure. How wanton is thy waste of so great treasure! And oh, how little value dost thou find! How vacant is thy vision, and how blind! How empty is thy work, how vain thy leisure! Let all thy faults foregather on that day, When Love shall touch thee with his magic wand, And thou at last unto thyself shall say Thy breast is wounded, but thy heart is fond. Yet shall I love thy spirit, come what may, Though thou be old, and I be far beyond.