Young Juan and his lady-love were left To their own hearts’ most sweet society; Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Sigh’d to behold them of their hours bereft, Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, Before one charm or hope had taken wing. Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; The blank grey was not made to blast their hair, But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail They were all summer: lightning might assail And shiver them to ashes, but to trail A long and snake-like life of dull decay Was not for them—they had too little day. They were alone once more; for them to be Thus was another Eden; they were never Weary, unless when separate: the tree Cut from its forest root of years—the river Damm’d from its fountain—the child from the knee And breast maternal wean’d at once for ever,— Would wither less than these two torn apart; Alas! there is no instinct like the heart— The heart—which may be broken: happy they! Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay, Break with the first fall: they can ne’er behold The long year link’d with heavy day on day, And all which must be borne, and never told; While life’s strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die. ‘Whom the gods love die young,’ was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this: The death of friends, and that which slays even more— The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer’s shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save. Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead— The heavens, and earth, and air, seem’d made for them: They found no fault with Time, save that he fled; They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: Each was the other’s mirror, and but read Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection. The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, The least glance better understood than words, Which still said all, and ne’er could say too much; A language, too, but like to that of birds, Known but to them, at least appearing such As but to lovers a true sense affords; Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne’er heard,— All these were theirs, for they were children still, And children still they should have ever been; They were not made in the real world to fill A busy character in the dull scene, But like two beings born from out a rill, A nymph and her beloved, all unseen To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, And never know the weight of human hours.