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747

THE RHYTHM OF LOVE.

There is a tide that ever ebbs and flows,
When other tides of time arise and flee
And yet no blast its mighty waters blows,
Save that which never was on lawn or lea;
Yet but the heart in all its fulness knows
The awful surging of that central sea,
Whose only font is love that comes and goes,
Whose only borders are infinity.
And love's sweet ocean makes the breast its bound,
When life is dreary and its springs run dry,
And every pasture is a barren ground;
While in the heart we hear it tossing high,
Set to the music of its own soft sound,
That is a portion of eternity.