Sonnets of Sensibility
Sonnet VII
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.
SONNET 116 |
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds |
Admit impediments. Love is not love |
Which alters when it alteration finds, |
Or bends with the remover to remove: |
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark |
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; |
It is the star to every wandering bark, |
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. |
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks |
Within his bending sickle's compass come: |
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, |
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. |
If this be error and upon me proved, |
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. |
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