Forty-Nine

Forty-nine is certain of the evening.
On her the sunset melody depends.
Remote from the requirements of winning,
To her there is no point to means and ends;
Yet slanting sunlight melancholy sends.

No passion is more precious than her yearning,
Infinite far more than it intends;
Nor can love, though with compassion burning,
Ease the pain that with her pleasure blends.