  WHEN spring grows old, and sleepy winds Set from the south with odours sweet, I see my love, in green, cool groves, Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet. She throws a kiss and bids me run, In whispers sweet as roses’ breath; I know I cannot win the race, And at the end, I know, is death. But joyfully I bare my limbs, Anoint me with the tropic breeze, And feel through every sinew thrill The vigour of Hippomenes. A race of love! We all have run Thy happy course through groves of spring, And cared not, when at last we lost, For life, or death, or anything! |
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