When younger women stand a breathing space Before their mirrors, with an inward smile At burnished hair or slender throat or wileOf dimpled chin, or nest a rose in laceAnd note how perfectly it mates the face, I, pallid, worn and hollow-templed, pile My heart with thoughts of secret triumphs, whileYoung hopes are mine, young bliss and youth's light pace.
For when my lover's eyes are fixed on me There are no years, no hollows, no gray days, No harsh realities, no endless prose;But only flowery lanes of poetry, Through which we wander, lost in sweet amaze That life could hold such fairness near its close.
