Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay!
— Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers —
Things that are made to fade and fall away,
— When they have blossomed but a few short hours.
Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! The thing you love may die —
— May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
— Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.
Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! The thing you love may change,
— The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange;
— The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.
Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! O warning vainly said
— In present years, as in the years gone by!
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,
— Faultless, immortal — till they change or die!
Love not, love not!