True love is not a conquest won,
⁠But a perpetual winning,
A tireless service bravely done
⁠And ever new-beginning;

Gold will not buy it for to-day
⁠Nor keep it for to-morrow,
From Pleasure's paths it turns away,
⁠To make its bed with Sorrow.

White, Aphrodite, are thy doves,
⁠But 'neath their snows are burning
Undying flames, and he who loves
⁠Aspires with flame-like yearning;

Aspires unto a far-off bliss
⁠Whose vision makes him younger,
And moved to rapture by thy kiss,
⁠Still for thy soul doth hunger!