Robert Bridges

O soul, be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.

So sweet love seemed that April morn. When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change.

But I can tell - let truth be told - That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be.

Were I a cloud I'd gather My skirts up in the air, And fly well know whither, And rest I well know where.