The Millars Daughter

Love that hath us in the net,
Can we pass, and we forget?
Many suns arise and set.
Many a chance the years beget.
Love the gift is Love the debtt.
Even so.
Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret.
Eyes with idle tears are wet.
Idle habit links us yet.
What is love?for we forget:
Ah, no! no!

Alfred Tennyson

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