LOVE IS A VINE.

Love is a vine, they tell; Ah, yes, One tendril clingeth to Nell, And another entwineth on Jess. Of a truth it were well That each should have separate hold, I confess. Should your trellis have only one post, Your vine must be sharply pruned; It cannot grow as it would, And all luxuriance is lost; Its bunches are very large, But only a few are borne; And should the one pillar give way, Down the whole vine is torn, Its leaves in ruin bestrewed, Prostrate, dishevelled and swooned Over the sward and the marge; For many and many a day Helpless, broken and cold— Love is a vine, they tell.

Love is itself clear fire, Flame perfect—only its objects, These flicker and burn out.