We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
Love the fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, The churlish thistles, scented briers, The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes, Down to the central fires, Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea Filling all the abysses dim Of lornest space, in whose de.
Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
Each time we love, We turn nearer and a broader mark To that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories