His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret.
Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. Look thro mine eyes with thine. They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless.