If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather.
Love, as is told by the seers of old, Comes as a butterfly tipped with gold, Flutters and flies in sunlit skies, Weaving round hearts that were one time cold.
Marvellous mercies and infinite love.
There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and rain and gold There shone one woman, and none but she.
Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire Dividing my delight and my desire.
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