By JH Sayyar
Tell me, O Rose, where gentle Love abides
In which soft vale, on which enchanted hill?
Where hides, which Time nor truth derides,
Whose whisper wakes the heart against its will?
Thy crimson lips, still wet with morning’s dew,
Have kissed the winds that courted lovers' sighs;
Thou know the vows that stars in silence knew,
The tears once shed beneath indifferent skies.
Doth Love still dwell in hearts that I believe?
Or has he flown to dreams the dusk forgets?
Do mortals find him, or but make and grieve
For shadows shaped in passions’ vague regrets?
Yet still you do bloom, as if to gently prove:
So none finds his home, all breathe his love.
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