Dead kisses of the long dead years
Have left their mark upon your face,
Beneath the sad, harsh winds of age
Of many roses now there is no trace.
I see not now your mouth and eyes
Gleam, like the birth of morning fair,
Nor softly now your head repose
Within the dark deep garden of your hair.
Your dear hands that still are sweet
Have somehow suffered from the loss
Of light about their finger-tips
That touched my forehead, like the dawn-kissed moss.
Your body that was fair and young
That I did with my thoughts endow,
No longer now is fresh as dew,
Your arm no longer like the white, clean bough.
All falls, alas, and fades away,
All changes now: your voice once smooth,
Your body, lowered like a shield
To spill the precious victories of youth.
And yet my heart says still with fervent stress:
What matter that the years grow heavier?
Since I know well that nothing can e'er bound
Or trouble our exalted happiness,
And that our souls are too profound
For love to die for want of loveliness.