A Lover's Confession
When people tell me they have loved
But once in youth,
I wonder, are they always moved
To speak the truth?
Not that they wilfully deceive:
They fondly cherish
A constancy which they would grieve
To think might perish.
They cherish it until they think
`Twas always theirs.
So, if the truth they sometimes blink,
`Tis unawares.
Yet unawares, I must profess,
They do deceive
Themselves, and those who questionless
Their tale believe.
For I have loved, I freely own,
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