——:o:——
The Seven Ages of Love.
Man in his day loves many times and oft,
For Nature’s made him uncontent with one;
He breathes a hundred vows in accents soft
Ere on the earth his pilgrimage is run.
First comes the baby, in his nurse’s arms,
With button mouth stretched wide for pap-filled spoon;
Or else with clutching fingers, eager palms,
Waiting and weeping for his love—the moon.