  I said, my pleasure shall not move; It is not fixed in things apart: Seeking not love—but yet to love— I put my trust in mine own heart. I knew the fountain of the deep Wells up with living joy, unfed; Such joys the lonely heart may keep, And love grow rich with love unwed. Still flows the ancient fount sublime; But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears; Not it, but love, has scorn of time; It turns to dust beneath the years. A.E. |
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