OVE is a day, Sweetheart, shining and bright: It hath its rose-dawn ere the morning light; Its glow and glory of the sudden sun; Its noon-tide heat as the swift hours wear on; Its fall of dew, and silver-lighted night,— Love is a day, Sweetheart, shining and bright.
Love is a year, Beloved, bitter and brief: It hath its spring of bud, and bloom and leaf; Its summer burning from the fervid South Till all the fields lie parched and faint with drouth; Its autumn, when the leaves sweep down the gale, When skies are grey, and heart and spirit fail; Its winter white with snowy, more white with grief,— Love is a year, Beloved, bitter and brief.
Love is a life, Sweetheart, ending in death: Is it worth while to mourn its fleeting breath,— Light-footed youth, or sad. fore-casting prime, Joy of young hope, or grief of later time? What pain or pleasure stays its parting breath? Love is a life, Sweetheart, ending in death.