Will Love…

Will love its dreamed perfections ever find?
In every part and feature perfect be?
Or will it gather close one partly blind
Who sometimes loves wild, passionately?
He gives her flowers she can’t quite adore,
He sends her poems that sing too much of she;
He overwhelms with ‘magination’s store
Her spirit’s line of perfect boundary.
But love’s not for designing, day, not night;
It walks, or leaps, spontaneous, with a flame
That burns now low, now high, its new-learned light,
Creating joying bursts it can’t restrain,
Oblivious to high perfection’s gold,
And only, tightly, wholly, loves to hold.

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