Love

I love thee still-I love thee still,
As truly as when first we met,
Ere grief o’er life had breath’d its chill,
Or sorrow’s tear my cheek had wet.
I love thee still-I love thee still,
Thy changeless constancy and truth;
Thy name yet wakens pleasures thrill;
Star of my bright and joyous youth.

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Hark! my lover–here he comes
springing across the mountains,
leaping across the hills.
My lover is like a gazelle
or a young stag.
Here he stands behind our wall,
gazing through the windows,
peering through the lattices.
My lover speaks; he says to me,
“Arise, my beloved, my dove, my beautiful one, and come!
“O my dove in the clefts of the rock,
in the secret [...]

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I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Alfred Tennyson

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