Sonnet: 8

'T is not the future dread that makes me shun
The end of all the living,—not the fear
Of that which thunders in the coward's ear,
And drives him to his fancied hell,—not one
Of those the hypocrite can work upon,
Who plays with childish, female weakness:—No,
There is no darker world where I can go,
And all that justice can inflict is done:
But life will linger even when hope has flown,
And we will cling to all that once had power
To charm us, soothe us, bless us, and the hour
Of early, unstained passion—that alone
Comes like a flash of light across the heart,
From whose imagined heaven we cannot, will not part.
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