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The Flame Of Love
The flame of love is not yet dead –
The waning wick waits in pain,
Hovering on the edge of hope,
Like a patient on the death-bed;
While the life-giving oil
Ebbs fast below.
Ah, were it not for this chance breath of breeze,
That fans the flame afire;
Until it glows again,
With the radiance of the setting sun.
The wick burns low, ever so low,
Hush! Blow not too hard, Oh breeze,
Lest you blow it out forever.