Chapter XCV

Strive as I would to banish from my mind
The witchery that thy fair presence giveth,
I cannot kill the flower of love that liveth,
By that same witchery, or leave behind
The subtle fragrance that doth still remind
My soul of one whose song forever singeth,
Like some inhabitant of air that wingeth
Above those treasures that on earth we find.
For it is oft--as I indeed am now--
With those who trample love beneath the heart.
The more they seek to kill, or lay it low,
The more it liveth with new-fashioned art,
That causeth it, unwelcomed, still to grow,
And thus deny that from it they shall part.