I said, my pleasure shall not move;
It is not fixed in things apart:
Seeking not love--but yet to love--
I put my trust in mine own heart.
I knew the fountain of the deep
Wells up with living joy, unfed;
Such joys the lonely heart may keep,
And love grow rich with love unwed.
Still flows the ancient fount sublime;
But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears;
Not it, but love, has scorn of time;
It turns to dust beneath the years.
_A.E._