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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-06-03 | [This text should be read in romana] | Submited by Antal Adrian
Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath, And thro' the clefts, itself has made, We spy the flashes of the Blade ! But thro' the clefts, itself has made, We likewise see Love's flashing blade, By rust consumed or snapt in twain : And only Hilt and Stump remain.
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