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Let not fruitless toil destroy

Days fresh as blossoms newly sprung!

Ere sages spoke, ere poets sung,

Youth was the gala-time of joy,—

And thou art young!

Glory?—ah, 't is labor double!

Wealth?—alas, 't is costly trouble!

Foolish Hylas! Wouldst thou follow

Glistering shows and phantoms hollow,

Vague intents and dreams ideal?

Here are pleasures sweet as real:

Still delights

Of summer nights,

Rest—which e'en ambition misses—

Soft repose

On beds of rose

In murmurous grots, and waking blisses.

Hither comes no word of duty;

Life is love, and love is beauty.

Hither comes no note of strife;

Life is love, and love is life.

Raptures bubbling to the brink,

Would not a wise man stoop and drink?

Though Heracles sit in his tent

And boast to warlike Telamon

Of monsters tamed and labors done;

Though he recount in lofty strain