These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill. Girls we love for what they are; young men for what they promise to be.
Love is made with a vague regret. Love me little, love me long. This is the very ecstasy of love, whose violent property forebodes itself. To be wise and eke to love, is granted scarce to gods above.
Such sober certainty of waking bliss. It is an ancient story, yet is it ever new.
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