True Love

TRUE love is not a conquest won,But a perpetual winning;A tireless service bravely doneAnd ever new-beginning;

Gold will not buy it for to-dayNor keep it for to-morrow,From Pleasure's path it turns away,To make its bed with Sorrow.

White, Aphrodite, are thy doves,But 'neath their snows are burning,Undying flames, and he who lovesAspires with flame-like yearning:

Aspires unto a far-off blissWhose vision makes him younger,And moved to rapture by thy kiss,Still for thy soul doth hunger!