Love is no faint exotic made to bloom
In the close summer of a glassy frame,
That at the first breath of the unquelled air
Shrivels up like a parchment in the flame.
No! let it stand upon the mountain's brow,
And bid the untamed winds make sport of it;
Yet though they drive it 'fore them in their might,
'Twill be like the strong eagle that exults
In the wild rapture of his headlong swoop;
The strongest and the tenderest is Love!