Sonnet VII

Is love a fancy, or a feeling? No. It is immortal as immaculate Truth, 'Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth, Drops from the stem of life—for it will grow, In barren regions, where no waters flow, Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom. A darkling fire, faint hovering o'er a tomb, That but itself and darkness nought doth show, It is my love's being yet it cannot die, Nor will it change, though all be changed beside; Though fairest beauty be no longer fair, Though vows be false, and faith itself deny, Though sharp enjoyment be a suicide, And hope a spectre in a ruin bare.