Can Love, that of the soul’s delight is born,
Being matched in stature to the soul, increase?
Not so: but Memory, leaning at his side,
Waxes with every rosy draught of morn,
And gathers to her every moon’s full peace,
And dreaming on dark seas of summer, grows deep-eyed.
A CHARMED CUP.
As drinking-cups whereof old rhymers tell,
In twilight ages all with wonders rife,