Love is a day, Sweetheart, shining and bright:
It hath its rose-dawn ere the morning light;
Its glow and glory of the sudden sun;
Its noon-tide heat as the swift hours wear on;
Its fall of dew, and silver-lighted night, —
Love is a day. Sweetheart, shining and bright.

Love is a year, Beloved, bitter and brief:
It hath its spring of bud, and bloom and leaf;
Its summer burning from the fervid South
Till all the fields lie parched and faint with drouth;
Its autumn, when the leaves sweep down the gale,
When skies are grey, and heart and spirit fail;
Its winter white with snow, more white with grief, —
Love is a year, Beloved, bitter and brief.

Love is a life, Sweetheart, ending in death:
Is it worth while to mourn its fleeting breath,
Light-footed youth, or sad, fore-casting prime,
Joy of young hope, or grief of later time?
What pain or pleasure stays its parting breath?
Love is a life, Sweetheart, ending in death.