Were hearts not made so durable,
Nor yet so lightly rent;
Should science prove love curable,
The damaged heart, content,
Could face the day and wend its years
All absent of desire.
If but a single flood of tears
Would quench the phoenix pyre!
For hearts fall not, like soldiers bold,
But once upon the field.
An urge as fresh as it is old
Commands the heart to yield;
Compels the tender heart to bear
The oft-recurrent pain,
And holds it fast, unto the last,
To lose, and love again.
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