I Love cometh and love goeth, And he is wise who knoweth Whither and whence love flies: But wise and yet more wise Are they that heed not whence he flies or whither Who hither speeds to-day, to-morrow thither; Like to the wind that as it listeth blows, And man doth hear the sound thereof, but knows Nor whence it comes nor whither yet it goes. II O sweet my sometime loved and worshipt one A day thou gavest me That rose full-orbed in starlike happiness And lit our heaven that other stars had none:-- Sole as that westering sphere companionless When twilight is begun And the dead sun transfigureth the sea: A day so bright Methought the very shadow, from its light Thrown, were enough to bless (Albeit with but a shadow's benison) The unborn days its dark posterity. Methought our love, though dead, should be Fair as in life, by memory Embalmed, a rose with bloom for aye unblown. But lo the forest is with faded leaves And our two hearts with faded loves bestrown, And in mine ear the weak wind grieves And uttereth moan: 'Shed leaves and fallen, fallen loves and shed, And those are dead and these are more than dead; And those have known The springtime, these the lovetime, overthrown, With all fair times and pleasureful that be.' And shall not we, O Time, and shall not we Thy strong self see Brought low and vanquishèd, And made to bow the knee And bow the head To one that is when thou and thine are fled, The silent-eyed austere Eternity? III Behold a new song still the lark doth sing Each morning when he riseth from the grass, And no man sigheth for the song that was, The melody that yestermorn did bring. The rose dies and the lily, and no man mourns That nevermore the selfsame flower returns: For well we know a thousand flowers will spring, A thousand birds make music on the wing. Ay me! fair things and sweet are birds and flowers, The scent of lily and rose in gardens still, The babble of beakèd mouths that speak no ill: And love is sweeter yet than flower or bird, Or any odor smelled or ditty heard-- Love is another and a sweeter thing. But when the music ceaseth in Love's bowers, Who listeneth well shall hear the silence stirred With aftermoan of many a fretful string: For when Love harpeth to the hollow hours, His gladdest notes make saddest echoing.