OUNG Love forsook the highways,

All decked in their robes of Spring,

And, far into silent by-ways,

He fluttered on golden wing.

Blithe youths and maidens chased him,

“He is only tired,” they said.

To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,

Then sighed that Love was dead.

On, on through the shining meadows,

As the rays of the evening fell,

He sped ’mid the length’ning shadows

Till he came to a lonely dell.

The flowers, with teardrops laden,

Bent their heads as he flew along,

To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden—

His sigh was a poet’s song.