Classic Poem

I

Sweet it is by the Summer river
Where oleanders blush rose-red,
When the delicate eyelids quiver,
When with kisses young lips are fed.
Ay, you have known it! Own it . . . own it!
This is the joy the good gods send:
Love's gay rhyme is older than Time is . . .
Ah, but all must have an end!

II

Love was made to madden and plague us,
Fresh as the flowers of the river-bed,
Sharp as the sword that's dipt in Tagus,
Sad with delight and sweet with dread.
How would you earn it? Spurn it . . . spurn it!
Then will its joy on your heart descend.
Ah but the crime is, merciless Time is . . .
Yes, for all must have an end!