Page:Ethel Churchill Fragments II.pdf/28



Love is a thing of frail and delicate growth; Soon checked, soon fostered; feeble, and yet strong: It will endure much, suffer long, and bear What would weigh down an angel's wing to earth, And yet mount heavenward; but not the less It dieth of a word, a look, a thought; And when it dies, it dies without a sign To tell how fair it was in happier hours: It leaves behind reproaches and regrets, And bitterness within affection's well, For which there is no healing.