Classic Poem

Thou art my youth.—My youth lies far behind the mountains:
Unmeasured years of pain between me and the fountains
Of young life bar the way:
To-day's November sun seems softly to remind me
Of strong old summer suns that in the years behind me
Gilded green leaves on many a forest-spray.

But thou art youth. To love old age is but a liar.
He cannot dim love's flame, he cannot quench love's fire;
For all his strength, not he!
Old age thinks scorn of love, and deems love like a river
Whose blue soft tides at cold advance of age will shiver:—
Love laughs,—and lo! love's streamlet is a sea.

If thou wilt love me, love,—not with a love which passes,
But with a love which stays when winter smites the grasses
And roses one by one:
If thou wilt love me, love,—with sweet love very tender,
The love which at death's gate sees through that gate the splendour
Which robes the rising of another sun:

If thou wilt love me, love,—with solemn love undying,—
Then I shall hear the heights to the far heights replying
And song will thrill the skies:
If thou wilt love me, love, I never shall grow older,
Nor watch the sunset-light upon the hills wax colder,
For heaven and earth will take light from thine eyes.