When thine eyes are averted, and the rage
Of winter winds turns luxury to dearth.
What will it profit if we love no more
(For I know thou hast loved in thine own way)?
What will it profit, if for yesterday
We substitute to-morrow, with its store
Of sorrow?
What is a dream for goddess?—not to be
Immortal once is to be dead forever!
And shall our eyes go blind and our lips never