My Love is neither young nor old,
Not fiery hot, nor frozen cold;
But fresh and fair as springing briar,
Blooming the fruit of love's desire.

Not snowy white nor rosy red,
But fair enough for shepherd's bed;
And such a Love was never seen
On hill or dale or country green.

No—your tepid and your vapid
Soul could not, I know, obey
My love's torrent, fierce and rapid
That through rocks could force its way.

Love's high-road for you's best sorted,
I can see you walking there,
On your husband's arm supported—
With good hopes of coming heir.

He who for the first time loves,
Albeit hopeless, is a god.
But for him whose love is hopeless,
Once again—he is a fool.

I am such a fool, and hopeless
Love once more, no true love winning;
Sun and moon and stars are laughing,
I am laughing too—and dying.

They loved one another, yet neither
Would tell the other so;
With love they were almost heartbroken,
Yet each looked on each as a foe.

They parted at last—and sometimes,
Though only in dreams, they met;
They had long been dead, those lovers,
But themselves searce knew it yet.

They think that I'm heart-broken
With lover's grief profound,
And at last I myself believe it
Like all the world around.

Small child with big eyes, bethink thee,
Did I not always say
That I never could tell how I loved thee,
That love ate my heart away?

But alone in my chamber only
Did I dare to utter such cry;
Alas! I was always silent,
Whenever thou wast by.

For then there were evil angels
By whom I was tongue-tied too;
And alas! there are evil angels
Who still are working me woe.

The years are coming and going,
Generations sleep 'neath the grass,
But the love that burns within me
Will surely never pass.

Once more would I behold thee,
And as on my knee I fell,
With my latest breath would I tell thee,
“Madam, I love you well.”

I stood and stared at her portrait
With fixed and dreamy pain,
And the well-loved face most strangely
Began to live again.

About her lips was playing
The wonder of her smile;
And with tears of love and yearning
Her eyes were bright the while.

My tears began to gather,
And down my cheeks flowed free.
And oh! I cannot yet believe
That thou art lost to me.

Ah, Lily, I love thee so madly
As thou standest in dreams mid the grass,
And look'st in the streamlet so sadly,
And murmurest “Ah” and “Alas.”

Away with thy love and thy coaxing,
I know how deceitful thou art!
Thy tenderest words are but hoaxing,
For my cousin, the Rose, has thy heart.

Away, through bramble, bush, and trees,
Ere the wingëd joyance fly
Drain the cup unto the lees
Nature gives with loving eye.

Drink with thirsty spirit, drink
The breathing spring; the winds that pass;
Sink with joy delicious, sink,
Deep in moss and dewy grass.

Happy as the sounding horn,
Through the waking woods I'd sweep;
Flattering the fair vales at morn,
Echoing through the cloven steep.

Like the early sunrise bright,
Full of love's divinest sheen,
Would I bathe, O rare delight!
In the rich and youthful green.

Our love is not a fading, earthly flower:
Its wingëd seed dropped down from Paradise,
And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower,
Doth momently to fresher beauty rise:
To us the leafless autumn is not bare,
Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green.
Our summer hearts make summer's fulness, where
No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen:
For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie,
Love,—whose forgetfulness is beauty's death,
Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I
Into the infinite freedom openeth,
And makes the body's dark and narrow grate