A Song

The world is young today:
...Forget the gods are old,
...Forget the years of gold
When all the months were May.

A little flower of Love
...Is ours, without a root,
...Without the end of fruit,
Yet--take the scent thereof.

There may be hope above,
...There may be rest beneath;
...We see them not, but Death
Is palpable--and Love.

Digby Mackworth Dolben