I will not be a rock in the path of streams
Flowing to a river. A love is not whole
Which lives only in foolish dreams
Or wades through storms for nought.
No, it is a stubborn child
Clinging to its mother in a watery grave
A father watching the night
Hope's faithful slave
That cannot be numbered in longing's worth
Time has no hand upon love, though the image wanes
And the warping of age comes too soon
Love clings at the depths of the ocean heart,
Bearing out even to the edge of doom.
If love proves to be less than all these
Then I am a fool, and should be drowned for it.
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