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There's not a joy the world can give like
that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines
in feeling's dull decay;
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheeck the
blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere
youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the
wreck of happiness
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or
ocean of excess;
The magnet of their course is gone, or
only points on vain
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall
never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like
death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not
dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the
fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis
where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips,
and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no
more their former hope of rest;
'Tis but ivy-leaves around the ruin'd
turret wreath,
All green and wildly fresh without, but
worn and grey beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what
I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept o'er
many a vanished scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet,
all brackish though they be,
So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those
tears would flow to me.

~Count Edmond Fernand Mondego~

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The following comments are for "For Her"
by Count Edmond Fernand Mondego

I agree that the olde worlde language is nice to see. Not so olde though, some of it reminded me of Owen. You can see the effort and it has certainly paid in parts. I took my time reading this, because that's how the rythmn took me. Enjoyable.

( Posted by: Steve Murphy [Member] On: September 18, 2003 )

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