Why should we set these hearts of ours above      The rest, and cramp them in possession's clutch? Poor things, we gasp and strain to capture love,      And in our hands, it powders at our touch.  We turn the fragrant pages of the past,      Mournful with scent of passion's faded flow'rs, On every one we read, "Love cannot last"–      So how could ours? It is the quest that thrills, and not the gain,      The mad pursuit, and not the cornering: Love caught is but a drop of April rain,      But bloom upon the moth's translucent wing. Why should you dare to hope that you and I,      Could make love's fitful flash a lasting flame? Still, if you think it's only fair to try–      Well, I am game.

  The lost poems