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[I. True,—love hath its perils and denials—takes]

True,—love hath its perils and denials—takes
Its color from the cloud; and, with a will,
Born of capricious fancy, sometimes aches
With its own raptures, wild and wilful still;—
Is pleased to grieve o'er griefs that may not rise,
And finds a tempest in serenest skies;—
Suspects where it should worship, and grows cold
When most the mutual fire is warm and bright,—
And is, self-doom'd, a stranger to delight,
When most the entwining arms of truth would fold
The estranged one in the happiest heart-embrace!
But these are natural aspects in the strife
Of nature, worn by all of mortal race,
And prove far less of suffering than of life.