A Song with a Discord

Though Winter come with dripping skies,
And laden winds and strong,
Yet I ’ll read summer in her eyes
Whose voice is summer’s song.

Who grieves because the world is old,
Or cares how long it last,
If no gray threads are in our gold,
The shade our marbles cast,

How, creeping near, we may not see?
Time’s heirs are Love and I,
And spend our minted days—Ah, me!
For anything they ’ll buy.