Love is a child so full of woe
taking freely where'er it goes.
It is a vain and tawdry thing
steeped in itself, its praise to sing.
Love is a child, tries hard to please
lifts with a touch and slays with ease.
It is a wild unfettered thing
filled with joy, its praises I sing.
Love is a child; wanton delight
a state most common, wrong or right.
It fills with melancholy pain
but soothes the soul in true love's reign.
Love is a child, bends all to sway
with this fervent prayer every day:
Let love be full and rich with pain
if then our souls connect again.
© by Trish Shields