IV.

Our love may be the rarest rose
That ever deigned to bloom, a bond
Conceived to challenge all man's prose,
Defying words and reaching far beyond.

Art thou some spectre only here to tease
My starving heart and lonely pains?
Or but a potion that will cease
To soothe, and dry like desert rains?

But still I'll say to all: this love ideal
Surpasses ev'ry other one may find,
Until you will no longer heal
This roaming soul, this wand'ring mind,

Until that day when you depart from me,
An angel gone back to its sanctuary.