True Love — Florence Earle Coates

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

Gold will not buy it for to-dayNor 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 burningUndying flames, and he who lovesAspires with flame-like yearning;

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