Fold me unaware To know the rapture of thy heart And I but render and confess The malice of thy tenderness. For elegant and antique phrase Dearest my lips wax all too wise; Nor have I known a love whose praise Our piping poets solemnize Neither a love where may not be Ever so little falsity. XXVIII Gentle lady do not sing Sad songs about the end of love; Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead and how In the grave all love... read more
