I said my pleasure shall not move;
It is not fixed in things apart:
Seeking not love — but yet to love —
I put my trust in mine own heart.

I knew the fountain of the deep
Wells up with living joy, unfed:
Such joys the lonely heart may keep,
And love grow rich with love unwed.

Still flows the ancient fount sublime; —
But, ah, for my heart, shed tears, shed tears;
Not it, but love, has scorn of time;
It turns to dust beneath the years.