Even in passion, when grape-hung,
Rosy and round and dewy-young,
There bides a beauty, and we smile:
“Suffer them for a little while.”

But youth shall pass, and passion wane;
The ineffable blush comes not again.
Yet, buoyant in the after years,
The soul laughs softly through her tears.

But, oh, thou satyr! Neither youth
Is thine, nor wisdom born of truth;
Loveless and loath, what irony
Is in the very look of thee!