An age in her embraces passed Would seem a winter's day; When life and light, with envious haste, Are torn and snatched away. But, oh! how slowly minutes roll. When absent from her eyes That feed my love, which is my soul, It languishes and dies. For then no more a soul but shade It mournfully does move And haunts my breast, by absence made The living tomb of love. You wiser men despise me not, Whose love-sick fancy raves On shades of souls and Heaven knows what; Short ages live in graves. Whene'er those woundng eyes, so full Of sweetness, you did see, Had you not been profoundly dull, You had gone mad like me. Nor censure us, you who perceive My best beloved and me Sign and lament, complain and grieve; You think we disagree.
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9/15/2026 9:19:13 AM # rel_20260910T140628Z_5ffb431