XI <br /> Belovèd, those who moan of love's brief day <br /> Shall find but little grace with me, I guess, <br /> Who know too well this passion's tenderness <br /> To deem that it shall lightly pass away, <br /> A moment's interlude in life's dull play; <br /> Though many loves have lingered to distress, <br /> So shall not ours, sweet Lady, ne'ertheless, <br /> But deepen with us till both heads be grey. <br /> For perfect love is like a fair green plant, <br /> That fades not with its blossoms, but lives on, <br /> And gentle lovers shall not come to want, <br /> Though fancy with its first mad dream be gone; <br /> Sweet is the flower, whose radiant glory flies, <br /> But sweeter still the green that never dies.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-growth-of-love-xi/
