That smoulders. Love that burns is always clear.”
“But mine will not burn clearly, till it show
A woman,” said I, “fitted for a mate,
Whose mind, like yours, can really match my own.
Till then must memory, jealous for her past,
Out-do love’s hope that cannot promise more.”
“But maidens,” cried he, “are not loved like men.
Bind beauty to their souls, then weigh the twain.
If one weigh naught, he waives his judgment then.
We must be practical.”