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LOVE.
…. The imperial votress passed on
In maiden meditation, fancy free.
Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again?
Benedict, in Much Ado about Nothing
hen the tree of Love is budding first,
Ere yet its leaves are green,
Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nursed
Its infant life has been;
The wild bee’s slightest touch might wring
The buds from off the tree,
As the gentle dip of the swallow’s wing
Breaks the bubbles on the sea.
But when its open leaves have found
A home in the free air,
Pluck them, and there remains a wound
That ever rankles there.
The blight of hope and happiness
Is felt when fond ones part,
And the bitter tear that follows is
The life-blood of the heart.
