Little, oh how little we know of Love:
The crescent moon atop it's highest point,
Connecting lofty silver beams above
To this earth, most fragrant, cannot annoint
Mans' overwelming desire ere displayed--
And yet, known by Love in its' full trueness,
The Nightingale recites sweet serenade;
So too Willows with many a token-tress
Do sway, not from the tumultuous air,
But by Love's most maternal, gentle kiss--
Her prescience from on high shall dwell where
We espy but a fragment of such bliss:
That we, with emotion bidding, relate,
And for such, all false passions we sedate.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!