Chapter XCIII

Love heeds not time, nor space, nor form, nor woe,
The seasons, slain by Cupid’s arrows, fade
Like misty spectres; and the night, remade,
Gives place once more to day’s unceasing show.
The past gave joy; the future pain must know.
Reflection of itself makes love, ’tis said,
Mirror the beauty of its thought, repaid
A thousand times to lovers when they go.
For which is most, experience or thought?
Anticipation or sweet memory?
The preparation for what love once brought;
Or last, the dwelling on delight passed by?
All these love still commands, through battles fought
With passion, lust, desire, and life’s stern cry.