Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate: The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring,But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait, For storms and tears that seasoned excellence bring;And Love doth fix his joyfullest estate In hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's brooding wing.Youth sues to Fame: she coldly answers, "Toil!" He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserveResponds the goddess, "Woo them from the soil." Then fervently he cries, "Thee will I serve,--Thee only, blissful Love." With proud recoil The heavenly boy replies, "To serve me well--deserve."