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...TO MY HONOURED FRIEND DR. CHARLETON by JOHN DRYDEN ASTRONOMY by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN IN FLANDERS FIELDS by JOHN MCCRAE A MODEST WIT by SELLECK OSBORNE PROVINCIA DESERTA by EZRA POUND |