V
If life and love are garments that grow old
And frayed and soiled as those that beggars wear,
I’ll put them from me while they still are fair.
And purply splendid, still undimmed their gold.
I will not suffer word of them be told
That’s pitiful or hath a grievous air,
Joy shall be on them blazoned everywhere
As on twin standards of the warrior soul.
I will not wait till Hope—that coward bird—
Does backward fly becoming Memory,
Untruths to prattle to me foolishly.
The day that first my heart shall bring me word
I’ll leave forever these twin robes of state
And laugh to know Grief could not make me wait.