Page:Heath's Book of Beauty 1833.pdf/19

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I care not for a heart whose youth Is gone before its years, Which makes a mockery of truth, Which finds a boast in tears. That is not love, when idleness Would fill a listless hour— 'Tis vanity, which prizes less The passion than the power.

I hold that love which can be kept As silent as the grave, And pure as dews by evening wept Upon the heaving wave— Embodying all life's poetry. Its highest, dearest part: And till such love my own may be, I bear a charmed heart.