A Spring Harvest/The Last Meeting
THE LAST MEETING
We who are young, and have caught the splendour of life, Hunting it down the forested ways of the world, Do we not wear our hearts like a banner unfurled (Crowned with a chaplet of love, shod with the sandals of strife)?
Now not a lustre of pain, nor an ocean of tears Nor pangs of death, nor any other thing That the old tristful gods on our heads may bring Can rob us of this one hour in the midst of the years.