Though love had dreamt of soft eternities
For never-flagging pulses still to mete,
Those minutes of our bliss were few and fleet.
Breast-pillowed in their aftermath of ease,
She said to me at midnight: 'Memories
Are all we have in the end.' Ah, bitter-sweet
The doom that tolling bells of thought repeat—
This verity of solemn verities
Wherein the sorrowful senses find despair
And the heart an iridescence on dark tears....
But grant, O Venus of the hidden hill,
That many a rose-lit eve remain to share,
And midnights in the unascended years,
And starry memories unbegotten still.