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Against itself: it is a common tale, And ever will be while earth soils prevail Over earth's happiness; it tells she strove With silent, secret, unrequited love.

It matters not its history; love has wings Like lightning, swift and fatal, and it springs Like a wild flower where it is least expected, Existing whether cherish'd or rejected; Living with only but to be content, Hopeless, for love is its own element,— Requiring nothing so that it may be The martyr of its fond fidelity. A mystery art thou, thou mighty one! We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun To own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's songs Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs,