Lovers are blithe, and weary with joy, and poised by ease. Wear on their soul marks the years, the untiring years, And when the tireless tire Their lies are honeyed and giving and true, “For I grow old and stale and bored,” And all about them thins with wear, And all inside them cools with wear, And the thousandth smile stings of the first, And they’re tireless in their forgetful warmth.

This poem is a few years old, I stumbled across it in my old “lunch poems” folder.