Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/315

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Like the young willow when for the first time The wind sweeps o'er it rudely, had not lost Its own peculiar grace; but it was bowed By sickness, or by worse than sickness—sorrow! And this is Love! Oh! why should woman love; Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope, Happiness, are but things of which henceforth She'll only know the name? Her heart is seared: A sweet light has been thrown upon its life, To make its darkness the more terrible. And this is Love!