PERHAPS it is not love, said I, That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh: Where wit and sense like hers agree, One may be pleased, and yet be free. The beauties of her polish'd mind It needs no lover's eye to find; The hermit freezing in his cell Might wish the gentle Flavia well. It is not love -- averse to bear The servile chain that lovers wear; Let, let me all my fears remove, My doubts dispel -- it is not love -- O! when did wit so brightly shine In any form less fair than thine? It is -- it is love's subtile fire, And under friendship lurks desire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 46 by WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN THE LOVER COMFORTETH HIMSELF WITH THE WORTHINESS OF HIS LOVE by HENRY HOWARD THE CITY IN THE SEA by EDGAR ALLAN POE FRED ENGLEHARDT'S BABY by CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS |