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a web of many textures

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The pulse of life is Love, — without its throb,
Men were but mere machines, and poor at that,
And all life's duties but a weary job,
Like these, my rhymes, — unprofitable, stale, and flat!
Love is born with and in us and around,
It lights our cradle with its ray serene,
It follows us in sorrow's depths profound,
It shrinks not, howsoever drear the scene;
Stronger when woe's dense cloud of trial lowers,
Its voice is heard still breathing in the gloom,
As the sweet herb of night expands its flowers,
And sheds amid the darkness its perfume!
Yet Love too oft feels not the gentle mesh
Of olden thrall, but sighs for pots of flesh.