Why fails love to be content unto itself?
To have loved is to have loved.
From what anxiety does the source
Of some sore heart's fretting spring
To find itself alone in multiplying passions?
Love's esoteric diet is itself lavishly returned.
Vacant partitions tailored to requitement
Burn and waste away when devoid of their purpose,
Overwhelmed by desolate starvation amidst their desire.
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