A Song
The world is young today:
Forget the gods are old,
Forget the years of gold
When all the months were May.
A little flower of Love
Is ours, without a root,
Without the end of fruit,
Yet—take the scent thereof.
There may be hope above,
There may be rest beneath;
We see them not, but Death
Is palpable—and Love.
Forget the gods are old,
Forget the years of gold
When all the months were May.
A little flower of Love
Is ours, without a root,
Without the end of fruit,
Yet—take the scent thereof.
There may be hope above,
There may be rest beneath;
We see them not, but Death
Is palpable—and Love.
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