"Ah, what is Love?" The question softly fell. Can human tongue the perfect answer tell? Is it the sunset radiance, or the shade That steals at twilight down the sleepy glade? Is it the broken whisper of a prayer Springing from that meek heart where once despair Held sway but rules no longer, or the smile On childlike face that knows nor fear nor guile,— The song that rises as tears fall the while? "And where is Love?" The question plaintive grew.
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