 | Poems |  |
86
LXXXII
['Tis not Love that is dead]
'Tis not Love that is dead,
But Hope, his sister fair.
They breathed the self-same air,
On the same food they fed.
The soul of Love with awful strength was filled
By Passion—but his sister, Hope, was killed.
But Hope, his sister fair.
They breathed the self-same air,
On the same food they fed.
The soul of Love with awful strength was filled
By Passion—but his sister, Hope, was killed.
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