Her Anxiety

Earth in beauty dressed

Awaits returning spring.

All true love must die,

Alter at the best

Into some lesser thing.

Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,

Such exacting breath,

That they touch or sigh.

Every touch they give,

Love is nearer death.

Prove that I lie.

by William Butler Yeats

 

 

 

 

 

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