Chapter XXVIII

For there is that in man which doth desire
Some time, in every heart, the play of love:
The emulation of his life above,
Before he came to earth, here to aspire
To something unattained, and feel the fire
Of untaught passion, his new being move
To sorrow, that it doth so ill behoove
The sense of love to suddenly inspire.
For who so harsh, that he denies th’ embrace
Of beauty’s arms about his melting form;
Or doth refuse the loved one’s proffered kiss,
When, half reclining, she would seem to chase
All care from off this earth, in one fair storm
Of loveliness, whose presence is true bliss?