XCIII
Reading edition
LOVE heeds not time, nor space, nor form, nor woe, The seasons, slain by Cupid’s arrows, fade Like misty spectres; and the night, remade, Gives place once more to day’s unceasing show. The past gave joy; the future pain must know. Reflection of itself makes love, ’tis said, Mirror the beauty of its thought, repaid A thousand times to lovers when they go. For which is most, experience or thought? Anticipation or sweet memory? The preparation for what love once brought; Or last, the dwelling on delight passed by? All these love still commands, through battles fought With passion, lust, desire, and life’s stern cry.