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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Maurice Thompson (1844–1901)


WHEN spring grows old, and sleepy winds

Set from the south with odors sweet,

I see my love in green, cool groves,

Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.

She throws a kiss and bids me run,

In whispers sweet as roses’ breath;

I know I cannot win the race,

And at the end, I know, is death.

But joyfully I bare my limbs,

Anoint me with the tropic breeze,

And feel through every sinew run

The vigor of Hippomenes.

O race of love! we all have run

Thy happy course through groves of spring,

And cared not, when at last we lost,

For life or death or anything!