Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Sonnet VII by Hartley Coleridge

Is love a fancy,or a feeling?No.
It is immortal as immaculate Truth,
Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth,
Drops from the stem of life--for it will grow,
In barren regions,where no waters flow,
Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom.

A darkling fire,faint hovering o'er a tomb,
That but itself and darkness nought doth show,

It is my love's being yet it cannot die,
Nor will it change,though all be changed beside;
Though fairest beauty be no longer fair,
Though vows be false,and faith itself deny,
Though sharp enjoyment be a suicide,
And hope a spectre in ruin bare.

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