How bright her beauty burned on every tongue,
And how a knightly stranger loved her well.
"Yet Love grows old that beats so young and warm;
His leaping fires in dust and ashes fail;
Shall we, too, wither in the winter-storm,
And wander thus one April, old and frail?"
Love grows not old, O lovers, though youth die,
And bodily beauty perish as the flower;
Though all things fail, though spring and summer fly,
Love's fire burns quenchless till the last dark hour.