An Echo of Meleager
Scorn not my love, proud child. The summers wane.
Long ere the topmost mountain snows have gone
The Spring is fleeting; ’neath the April rain
For one brief day flowers laugh on Helicon.
The breeze that fans thy honeyed cheek this noon
To-morrow will be blasts that scourge the main,
And youth and joy and laughter fleet too soon.—
Scorn not my love, proud child. The summers wane.
To-day the rose blooms by the garden plot,
The swallows twitter ’neath the Parian dome;
But soon the roses fall and lie forgot,
And soon the swallows will be turning home.
Tempt not the arrows of the Cyprian’s eye,
Vex not the god that will not brook disdain;—
Love is the port to which the wise barks fly.
Scorn not my love, proud child. The summers wane.
1910