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"I said I splendidly loved you; it's not true..."
by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

I said I splendidly loved you; it's not true.
   Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.
On gods or fools the high risk falls---on you---
   The clean clear bitter-sweet that's not for me.
Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
   Love is flung Lucifer-like from Heaven to Hell.
But---there are wanderers in the middle mist,
   Who cry for shadows, clutch, and cannot tell
Whether they love at all, or, loving, whom:
   An old song's lady, a fool in fancy dress,
Or phantoms, or their own face in the gloom;
   For love of Love, or from heart's loneliness.
Pleasure's not theirs, nor pain. They doubt, and sigh,
   And do not love at all. Of these am I.

 

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