Treasure Island

William Charles Wentworth

(1790 - 1872 / Australia)

Love


She loves me! From her own bliss-breathing lips
   The live confession came, like rich perfume
   From crimson petals bursting into bloom!
And still my heart at the remembrance skips
Like a young lion, and my tongue, too, trips
   As drunk with joy! while every object seen
   In life's diurnal round wears in its mien
A clear assurance that no doubts eclipse.
And if the common things of nature now
   Are like old faces flushed with new delight,
Much more the consciousness of that rich vow
   Deepens the beauteous, and refines the bright,
   While throned I seem on love's divinest height
'Mid all the glories glowing round its brow.

Submitted: Saturday, January 04, 2003

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