What is the end of all sweet things,
Of these dawns and twilights and golden springs ?
Of the rose that climbs, and the scent that clings?
Of the breeze that sighs, and the thrush that sings?
Dust and ashes and death?

No, my dearest ! for you and I
Here on the hill's summit under the sky
Have found a magic, time cannot deny
To make immortal what else must die,
The magic of Love's warm breath.