With the same love that you were
With the same love that you were for me long ago a garden of splendour whose wavering coppices shaded the long grass and the docile roses, you are for me in these black days a calm and steadfast sanctuary.
All is centred there: your fervour and your brightness and your movements assembling the flowers of your goodness; but all is drawn together closely in a deep peace against the sharp winds piercing the winter of the world.
My happiness keeps warm there within your folded arms; your pretty, artless words, in their gladness and familiarity, sing still with as great a charm to my ears as in the days of the white lilac or of the red currants.
Oh! I feel your gay and shining cheerfulness triumphing day by day over the sorrow of the years, and you yourself smile at the silver threads that slip their waving network into your glossy hair.
When your head bends to my deep-felt kiss, what does it matter to me that your brow is furrowed, and that your hands are becoming ridged with hard veins when I hold them between my two steadfast hands!
You never complain, and you believe firmly that nothing true dies when love receives its meed, and that the living fire on which our soul feeds consumes even grief to increase its flame.
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