 | Lays of France |  |
Do ye not feel how love pursues
Your full hearts ever with his new
Inconstant summer—to convert
And steal them from the thing they knew
Their own,—to cause them to desert
Their piteous memories and the few
Fond faiths of perfect years? Alas,
He careth not how he may hurt
The dead, or trouble them that wait
In heaven, so he may bring to pass
Ever some new thing passionate
And sweet upon the earth: his sun
Hath need of you; and, if he takes
Last year's spoiled roses and remakes
Red summer with them, shall he shun
To steal your soft hearts every one,
O men and women, to enrich
His fair new transitory reign?
Your full hearts ever with his new
Inconstant summer—to convert
And steal them from the thing they knew
110
Their piteous memories and the few
Fond faiths of perfect years? Alas,
He careth not how he may hurt
The dead, or trouble them that wait
In heaven, so he may bring to pass
Ever some new thing passionate
And sweet upon the earth: his sun
Hath need of you; and, if he takes
Last year's spoiled roses and remakes
Red summer with them, shall he shun
To steal your soft hearts every one,
O men and women, to enrich
His fair new transitory reign?
| Lays of France | |