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… - Hartley Coleridge

He grew, and grew, A star-bright sign of fated empery; And all conspiring omens led him on To lofty purpose and pre-eminence. The mountain eagles, towering in their pride, Stoop'd at his beck and flock'd about his path, Like the small birds by wintry famine tamed; Or with their dusky and expansive wings Shaded and fann'd him as he slept at noon. The lightnings danced before him sportively, And shone innocuous as the pale cold moon In the clear blue of his celestial eye.

Ye patient fields, rejoice! The blessing that ye pray for silently Is come at last; for ye shall no more fade, Nor see your flow'rets droop like famishing babes Upon your comfortless breasts.

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.