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That, perhaps, was--love.html">Love of Pleasure,
Never turned aside,
Constant, even when tried;
Drops that swelled the sea:
But not Love of me!
I have seen a love disdaining
Burning even its own white pinions
Reigning thus, supreme, triumphant,
That was--Love of Love, I fancy,
What Love is when true.html">true.html">true.html">true;
Is the gift of few:
That true Love abides
Has a soul besides.
Lives among the false loves, knowing
Bears the self-same look, but always
Only a true heart can find it,
Only eyes as clear and tender
By Time's slow decay,
Stronger, day by day:
Fate--it can defy;
Love can choose to die.
And its grave shall be more noble.html">noble.html">noble
Than a throne, where one less worthy
Tell me then, do you dare offer
Neither you nor I can answer;
Which I so highly rate,
Their sound to desecrate.
For every day they are not meet,
They are for rarest, and most sweet,
So carelessly away,
We hear it, day by day.
Men pay it for a tender phrase.html">phrase
I keep it as a crown of praise
By trivial fancy, seek
They tarnish while they speak.
Nay, let the heart's slow, rare decree,
Silence herself should only be
To use that word.html">word, to raise
Or turn some tender phrase.
It should be said in awe and fear
And burn more brightly year by year,
Of that divine appeal,
Set it as slighter seal.
That word should meet a noble foe
And echo--like a deadly blow
They guard all noble things,
Has jarred some golden strings.
For what the lips have lightly said
And things on which we daily tread
The costliest purple hue.
Discolours what was true.
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