Chapter XXII

Our hearts once burned in joyous days
With love as luminous as high,
But age to-day has made us weak
With faults we dare deny.

Thou dost not nourish us, oh will,
By thine ardour in the strife,
But soft benevolence alone
Colours now our life.

We near thy brink of setting, Love,
And try to hide our frailty's pain
In banal words and poor discourse
Of wisdom slow and vain.

How sad the future then would be,
If when our days grow wintrier
There flame not forth the memory
Of the proud souls we were.