Charity

I praised the myrtle and the rose,
At sunrise in their beauty lying:
I passed them at the short day's close,
And both were dying.
The summer sun his rays was throwing
Brightly: yet ere I sought my rest
His last cold ray, more deeply glowing,
Died in the west.
After this bleak world's stormy weather,
All, all, save Love alone, shall die;
For Faith and Hope shall merge together
In Charity.