 | Poems |  |
112
IS IT LOVE?
To find my heart so heavy grown,
That I could almost swear
Young Cupid's dart was form'd of stone,
And he had fix'd it there;
A pang, I dare not tell, to prove,
And yet cannot conceal,—
I do not know if this is Love,
But this is what I feel!
That I could almost swear
Young Cupid's dart was form'd of stone,
And he had fix'd it there;
A pang, I dare not tell, to prove,
And yet cannot conceal,—
I do not know if this is Love,
But this is what I feel!
A secret influence to bear,
Makes me one form pursue,
As if that form the loadstone were,
And mine the needle true;
That pleasing malady to prove,
Which best itself can heal,—
I do not know if this is Love,
But this is what I feel!
Makes me one form pursue,
As if that form the loadstone were,
And mine the needle true;
That pleasing malady to prove,
Which best itself can heal,—
I do not know if this is Love,
But this is what I feel!
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