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Y beloved is the most desirable of all women. Many women have given me their love. They came and they went—loves of a day, a week, or a year. I am grateful to every one of them; but I fear I forgot them the moment they were outside my door. There was only one whom I always remembered, even when these others were with me; for she was the radiant ideal with whom they were all compared, near whom every one else faded. There was only one I always wished to enter my door, for she alone seemed ever fresh and new. There is only one with whom I would wish to live, for with her life takes on a golden meaning, a sunbright reality; there is only one I would wish to die with, for with her I know no fear. The name of my beloved is Marie. She is fairer than all other women.

THINK nothing of the praise a poet offers the woman who is his first and only love. For what is his judgment worth? The judgment of an ignoramus, a country clown! and more than likely his beloved is not worth all the fine words he steals from the language to bedeck her. It 195