A man cannot forget a woman’s eyes,
If he has kissed them (as I have thine own
In dreams). Love is an art
Which men do not forget, when they have known
The way a woman takes toward paradise.
What weary fools we are! Dust is the same,
Whether alive, or whether dead and rotten;
And love is love, remembered or forgotten;
And life is life, although it be a name.
Let sorrow come, with many tears; or shame