<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=37286" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Love's Growth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I SCARCE believe my love to be so pure<br> As I had thought it was,<br> Because it doth endure<br>Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;<br>Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore<br>My love was infinite, if spring make it more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow<br> With more, not only be no quintessence,<br> But mix'd of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense,<br>And of the sun his active vigour borrow,<br>Love’s not so pure, and abstract as they use<br>To say, which have no mistress but their Muse;<br>But as all else, being elemented too,<br>Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet no greater, but more eminent,<br> Love by the spring is grown;<br> As in the firmament<br>Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,<br>Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,<br>From love's awakened root do bud out now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If, as in water stirr'd more circles be<br> Produced by one, love such additions take,<br> Those like so many spheres but one heaven make,<br>For they are all concentric unto thee;<br>And though each spring do add to love new heat,<br>As princes do in times of action get<br>New taxes, and remit them not in peace,<br>No winter shall abate this spring’s increase.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Donne">John Donne</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=37286" data-title="Love's Growth de John Donne" data-description="I SCARCE believe my love to be so pure/ As I had thought it was,/ Because it doth endure/Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;/Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore/My love was infinite, if spring make it more./But if this medicine, love, wh..."></div> </div> </div>

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