The sordid gifts that they employ
To plague the old.
Let not fruitless toil destroy
Days fresh as blossoms newly sprung!
Ere sages spoke, ere poets sung,
Youth was the gala-time of joy,—
And thou art young!
"Glory?—ah, 't is labor double!
Wealth?—alas! 't is costly trouble!
Foolish Hylas! Wouldst thou follow
Glistering shows and phantoms hollow,
Vague intents and dreams ideal?
Here are pleasures sweet as real:
Still delights
Of summer nights,
Rest—which e'en ambition misses—
Soft repose
On beds of rose
In murmurous grots, and waking blisses.
Hither comes no word of duty;
Life is love, and love is beauty.
Hither comes no note of strife;
Life is love, and love is life.
Raptures bubbling to the brink,
Would not a wise man stoop and drink?
