All love is seen to fade and pass away.
When soul blends body by most subtle art,
I am the body, you the better part.
But O my well-loved soul, why did you stray ?
Why can't I always swoon with pleasure in
Your arms? My love, my better part, my soul,
O rescue me from drowning, even though
I know so well how badly I have sinned.
Dear friend, I sense there's something in the air
Of hunger lost. And if at last we meet
Again, please don't be cold, remote, discreet.
I am afraid our long concealed affair
Is willed to play out with a formal grace,
Both kind and cruel, never commonplace.
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Comments about this poem (Sonnet VII by Louise Labe )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(September 25, 1930 – May 10, 1999)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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