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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=118195" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Love and Reason</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When panting sighs the bosom fill,<br>And hands by chance united thrill<br>At once with one delicious pain<br>The pulses and the nerves of twain;<br>When eyes that erst could meet with ease,<br>Do seek, yet, seeking, shyly shun<br>Extatic conscious unison,<br>The sure beginnings, say, be these<br>Prelusive to the strain of love<br>Which angels sing in heaven above?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or is it but the vulgar tune,<br>Which all that breathe beneath the moon<br>So accurately learn so soon?<br>With variations duly blent;<br>Yet that same song to all intent,<br>Set for the finer instrument;<br>It is; and it would sound the same<br>In beasts, were not the bestial frame,<br>Less subtly organised, to blame;<br>And but that soul and spirit add<br>To pleasures, even base and bad,<br>A zest the soulless never had.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It may be well indeed I deem;<br>But what if sympathy, it seem,<br>And, admiration and esteem,<br>Commingling therewithal, do make<br>The passion prized for Reason’s sake?<br>Yet, when my heart would fain rejoice,<br>A small expostulating voice<br>Falls in; Of this thou wilt not take<br>Thy one irrevocable choice?<br>In accent tremulous and thin<br>I hear high Prudence deep within,<br>Pleading the bitter, bitter sting,<br>Should slow-maturing seasons bring,<br>Too late, the veritable thing.<br>For if (the Poet’s tale of bliss)<br>A love, wherewith commeasured this<br>Is weak and beggarly, and none,<br>Exist a treasure to be won,<br>And if the vision, though it stay,<br>Be yet for an appointed day,<br>This choice, if made, this deed, if done,<br>The memory of this present past,<br>With vague foreboding might o’ercast<br>The heart, or madden it at last.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let Reason first her office ply;<br>Esteem, and admiration high,<br>And mental, moral sympathy,<br>Exist they first, nor be they brought,<br>By self-deceiving afterthought,<br>What if an halo interfuse<br>With these again its opal hues,<br>That all o’erspreading and o’erlying,<br>Transmuting, mingling, glorifying,<br>About the beauteous various whole,<br>With beaming smile do dance and quiver;<br>Yet, is that halo of the soul?<br>Or is it, as may sure be said,<br>Phosphoric exhalation bred<br>Of vapour, steaming from the bed<br>Of Fancy’s brook, or Passion’s river?<br>So when, as will be by-and-by,<br>The stream is waterless and dry,<br>This halo and its hues will die;<br>And though the soul contented rest<br>With those substantial blessings blest,<br>Will not a longing, half confest,<br>Betray that this is not the love,<br>The gift for which all gifts above<br>Him praise we, Who is Love, the Giver?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot say the things are good<br>Bread is it, if not angels’ food;<br>But Love? Alas! I cannot say;<br>A glory on the vision lay;<br>A light of more than mortal day<br>About it played, upon it rested;<br>It did not, faltering and weak,<br>Beg Reason on its side to speak<br>Itself was Reason, or, if not,<br>Such substitute as is, I wot,<br>Of seraph-kind the loftier lot;<br>Itself was of itself attested;<br>To processes that, hard and dry,<br>Elaborate truth from fallacy,<br>With modes intuitive succeeding,<br>Including those and superseding;<br>Reason sublimed and Love most high<br>It was, a life that cannot die,<br>A dream of glory most exceeding.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Arthur+Hugh+Clough">Arthur Hugh Clough</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=118195" data-title="Love and Reason de Arthur Hugh Clough" data-description="When panting sighs the bosom fill,/And hands by chance united thrill/At once with one delicious pain/The pulses and the nerves of twain;/When eyes that erst could meet with ease,/Do seek, yet, seeking, shyly shun/Extatic conscious unison,/The sure..."></div>
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