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Friday, January 26, 2007 @ 11:52 PM


Is it love, to fix the tender glaze
to hide the timid blush & steal away.
to shun the busy world & waste the day
In some rude mountain's solitary maze?
Is it to chant one name in ceaseless lays,
to hear no words that other tongues can say
to watch the pale moon's melancholy ray,
to chide in fondness, and in folly praise?
Is it to pour the involuntary sigh, to dream of bliss,
and wake new pangs to prove.
To talk, in fancy, with the speaking eye.
Then start with jealousy, and wildly rove?
Is it to loath the light, and wish to die?

For these I feel - and feel that they are love.


Rewind