Go, meet his dewy, lingering lips in many a breathless kiss!
And let his white neck bear away rose-tokens of his bliss!
What comfort, girl, can jewels bring, or gems in priceless store,
To her who sleeps and weeps alone, of young love wooed no more?
Too late, alas! for love's return, or fleeting youth's recall,
When on thy head relentless age has cast the silvery pall.
Then beauty will be anxious art,--to tinge the changing hair,
And hide the record of the years with colors falsely fair.
To pluck the silver forth, and with strange surgery and pain,
Half-flay the fading cheek and brow, and bid them bloom again.
O listen, Pholoe! with thee are youth and jocund May:
Enjoy to-day! The golden hours are gliding fast away!
Why plague our comely Marathus? Thy chaste severity
Let wrinkled wooers feel,--but not, not such a youth as he!
Spare the poor lad! 'tis not some crime his soul is brooding on;
'Tis love of thee that makes his eyes so wild and woe-begone!
He suffers! hark! he moans thy loss in many a doleful sigh,
And from his eyes the glittering tears flow down and will not dry.
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