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The very folly of a loving heart! O Jaromir! it is a fearful thing To love as I love thee; to feel the world— The bright, the beautiful, joy-giving world— A blank without thee. Never more to me Can hope, joy, fear wear different seemings. Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee. All that I once took pleasure in,—my lute Is only sweet when it repeats thy name; My flowers, I only gather them for thee; The book drops listless down, I cannot read, Unless it is to thee; my lonely hours Are spent in shaping forth our future lives After my own romantic fantasies.