PERFECT LOVE.

By Archibald Lampman

Beloved, those who moan of love's brief day

Shall find but little grace with me, I guess,

Who know too well this passion's tenderness

To deem that it shall lightly pass away,

A moment's interlude in life's dull play;

Though many loves have lingered to distress,

So shall not ours, sweet Lady, ne'ertheless,

But deepen with us till both heads be grey.

For perfect love is like a fair green plant,

That fades not with its blossoms, but lives on,

And gentle lovers shall not come to want,

Though fancy with its first mad dream be gone;

Sweet is the flower, whose radiant glory flies,

But sweeter still the green that never dies.