On the Hill Top
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.
