Love? I will tell thee what it is to love!
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where time seems young, and life a thing divine.
All tastes, all pleasures all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine;
Around the streams their flower margins kiss;
And if there’s heaven on earth, that Heaven is surely this.
Yes, this is love, the steadfast and the true,
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e’er knew;
Of all life’s sweets the very sweetest yet!
O! who but can recall the eve they met
To breathe in some green walk, their first young vow?
While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,
And winds sigh’d soft around the mountain’s brow,
And all was rapture then which is but memory now.
Charles Swain. Eng. 1803.
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