'Oh why,' my darling prayeth me, 'must you sing
For ever of ghostly loves, phantasmal passion?
Seeing that you never loved me after that fashion
And the love I gave was not a phantom thing,
But delight of eager lips and strong arms folding
The beauty of yielding arms and of smooth shoulder,
All fluent grace of which you were the moulder:
And I.... Oh, I was happy for your holding.'
'Ah, do you not know, my dearest, have you not seen
The shadow that broodeth over things that perish:
How age may mock sweet moments that have been
And death defile the beauty that we cherish?
Wherefore, sweet spirit, I thank thee for thy giving:
'Tis my spirit that embraceth thee dead or living.'