OUNG Love forsook the highways,
All decked in their robes of Spring,
And, far into silent by-ways,
He fluttered on golden wing.
Blithe youths and maidens chased him,
“He is only tired,” they said.
To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,
Then sighed that Love was dead.
On, on through the shining meadows,
As the rays of the evening fell,