Rodin in Rime

LYETERNEL PRINTEMPS I HE eternal spring is in the heart of youth. They are nearest to the secret of the world, These lovers with their lithe white bodies curled Into the rhythm of a dance; the truth Is theirs that feel, not ours that idly see; Theirs that inhabit, and not ours that flee The intimate touch of love and think to sleuth By intellect all the scent of being, whirled In the wheel of time—roll back, slow years, and be A monument, a memory for me; That I may in their passion have a part, And feel their glory glow within my heart! II This holy rapture is the eternal spring, Here in the love that tunes the untrammelled feet, Here in the ardour of the arms that cling, The alluring amber-touch of sweet to sweet, The ageless awe of the new love revealed, The reverence of the new love hovering nigh; 36