Classic Poem

This is love's vintage hour; within my arms
I hold imprisoned all thy rosy charms,
The crown of my desire, nor can see
In spring or summer aught so fair as thee.
Thy autumn beauties every treasure hold,
Oh, may they bloom for aye, nor e'er grow old.
And yet, what care I? When the grapes lie piled,
Men do not heed the curling tendrils wild.
And so my love will constant last, I trow,
E'en when the tendril wrinkles line thy brow.