Sonnet VII

December 31, 2009

By: Hartley Coleridge

Is love a fancy, or a feeling? No.

It is immortal as immaculate Truth,

‘Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth,

Drops from the stem of life–for it will grow,

In barren regions, where no waters flow,

Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom.

A darkling fire, faint hovering o’er a tomb,

That but itself and darkness nought doth show,

It is my love’s being yet it cannot die,

Nor will it change, though all be changed beside;

Though fairest beauty be no longer fair,

Though vows be false, and faith itself deny,

Though sharp enjoyment be a suicide,

And hope a spectre in a ruin bare.

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