Among the Millet

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;                                       5
    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,                       10
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.