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 'Tis no low-born material flame,

Fanned by the breath of lustful men,

That flickers fiercely first, then tame,

Then fiercely once again, and then

Dies down into grey embers, cold

Because this life seems growing old!

Nay, let our love, Sweet, vanquish Time,

Cast out all fear, forget the past

And its attendant ills—sublime

Stretches the future's vista—vast

Potentialities therein,

To love is surely not a sin!

'Tis far more sinful, Sweet, to me,

To yield yourself up to abuse

Of lust in guise of love, than be

Freely beloved. That man's vile use,

Though sanctioned by our social creed,

Has left your body poor indeed. Rh