I COULD not think that Time was old, So freshly did he wear His colours as the years were told, When I was walking there. He knew no sad mortality Of promise or regret, Forever in virginity Of joy Time's times were set. Now on your river from the shades, Boatman, a rumour comes Of one whose garland never fades, For all his martyrdoms. They call him Love; they chant his rhyme Even in Acheron; They call him Love -- but he and Time, You ferryman, are one. |