The Seasons
Youth
Would God, that I could love thee less!
My days are lost in dreams of thee.
I do my work in weariness,
Till kindly twilight sets me free.
Throughout the night thy beauty burns,
The more possessed, the more desired.
Until another day returns
To find me desperately tired.
Middle Age
Ah, me, that I could love thee more!
I know thee kind; I see thee fair,
Why can I not, as oft of yore,
In soft caresses lose my care?
At times life's dragging afternoon
Is quickened by thy morning charms;
I seek thee, but alas! I soon
Forget thee, even in thine arms!
Age
These lovers! Who can understand
Their vivid joy, their wild despair?
He does but live to kiss her hand,
And she would die to touch his hair!
Love is an enemy to Rest,
Which surely is Life's dearest good,
Yet, something stirs within my breast
And murmurs, "Once you understood!"