Do I not love—have I not loved thee long?
As we do ever love all gentle things,
All glorious things, and holy—the rich flowers—
The brilliant morn—the far and smiling heaven!
All these grow sometimes pale;—heaven is o’ercast—
The dawn is clouded—and the fickle flowers
Are blighted ere their bloom be ripe!—Oh, tell me,
Who shall ensure to love, in chilling absence,
Exemption from their change?
Teresa.