See, I may write a thousand rhymes
With my lyrical tranquil art,
And weave thy name on threads of time
To melt thy ardent heart.
To please thy tender heart my dear,
I may sing a thousand songs,
That soothe for aye each trembling tear
And heal the antique wrongs.
But neither the lines nor melodic grace
Of saccharine songs in tune,
Can ever depict thy occult face
Beneath the idyllic moon.
And neither the words nor lyrical charms
In the waves of rhythmic sea,
Can ever express the love that comes
From me and goes to thee.
For it seems that I have loved to thee
In a countless modes and ways,
And we love with a love greater than we
Which is beyond the nights and days.
Which is beyond the diurnal moves my dear,
Of this seraphic baffling Sphere;
A love so young, a love so true
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