Love is a Beggar

Love is a beggar, most importunate,
Uncalled he comes and makes his dear demands.
He storms my heart which doth capitulate
And then he asks the homage of my hands.
He claims my eyes, and wistfully they turn,
He craves my lips, half-willingly they yield
Their soft obeisance to his own that burn
With potent passion in the power they wield.
And when, with woman's faith, I give my whole,
I wonder if dear Love doth recognize
That, with it all, unless he claim my soul,
He gives me naught and asks but sacrifice!
For Love, if Love be Love, should wish no dole,
Nor eyes, nor lips, nor heart, without the Soul!
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