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OF LOVE
Of Love the gods require no task,
Content to grant whate'er may ask
The boy from Venus sprung,—
For howsoever grave his mask,
They know the lad is young:
Aye, young, indeed! Though, spite of warning,
Often at dusk, all prudence scorning,
He daring sail unfurls,—
Yet, fragrant still, the breath of morning
Lingers amid his curls.
What count takes he of days or years?—
E'en pain itself but more endears
The strange, immortal boy,
Who whilst his eyes o'er-brim with tears,
Yet keeps the heart of joy!
