Poem for the day

Her Anxiety

Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
Theat they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.

W. B. Yeats (1865 - 1939)

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