Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/19

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O’er some, Love’s shadow may but pass As passes the breath stain o’er glass; And pleasures, cares, and pride combined, Fill up the blank Love leaves behind. But there are some whose love is high, Entire, and sole idolatry; Who, turning from a heartless world, Ask some dear thing, which may renew Affection’s severed links, and be   As true as they themselves are true. But Love’s bright fount is never pure; And all his pilgrims must endure All passion’s mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring. And some who waste their lives to find A prize which they may never win: