Poem of the day
by Coventry Patmore
I call this idle history the -Berry of the Yew;
Because there's nothing sweeter than its husk of scarlet glue,
And nothing half so bitter as its black core bitten through.
I loved, saw hope, and said so; learn'd that Laura loved again:
Why speak of joy then suffer'd? My head throbs, and I would fain
Find words to lay the spectre starting now before my brain.
She loved me: all things told it; eye to eye, and palm to palm:
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