Love.
Love is the thing with dimples,
that brushes against your nose,
And cries out in silence,
And falls so ever slow,
And tender in this light is heard,
And comfort must be the touch,
That could ail the strongest man,
That kept so many shy,
I’ve traced the deepest ponds,
And on such soft pebbles,
Yet, I never felt,
Its
Fingers
Slip
past me.
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