Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/48

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How the same love, born in the self-same hour, Holds over different hearts such different power; How the same feeling lighted in the breast Makes one so wretched, and makes one so blest; How one will keep the dream of passion born In youth with all the freshness of its morn; How from another will thine image fade! Far deeper records on the sand are made. —Why hast thou separate being? why not die At once in both, and not leave one to sigh, To weep, to rave, to struggle with the chains Pride would fling off, but memory retains? There are remembrances that will not vanish,— Thoughts of the past we would but cannot banish: As if to show how impotent mere will, We loathe the pang, and yet must suffer still: