another small conventional poem

Love that we find in the old time books

Seems to be based on gestures and looks,

Strolls by the Seine and silvery brooks,

Found by the side of wayward routes;

And always it follows a certain trend,

However so precious and pure a blend,

We read that the lovers whose visions tend

To undying ardour and love without end,

Are finally lovers who stand condemned.

How vain then, their signals and gestures and games,

Their most solemn, most joyful, reverses and gains,

When all of their noblest passion drains

Like a roaring river swollen with rains,

Into the land of "nothing remains".
And he who that greatest god has passed by,
Nature's bounty is apt to deny,
And say to the world with half-closed eye:
"That is not a green field, that, not a blue sky,
The world without her is a void and a lie."
And all of his noblest passions die,
While she remains, elludingly,
Within the land of "time gone by".