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Poem by John Kenyon
The ne'er-forgetting! him who loves but once! Romance may laud, but Cupid dubs for dunce; And jeers, and mocks him on from pain to pain. Who but hath sworn him ne'er to love again, Then forged, himself, new links and chafed at his own chain? There are who drink, intoxicate to be; And some because intoxicate already. E'en like these last, I snatched the cup from thee, And hurried to my lip with hand unsteady. A draught it was, from whence fond hopes, at first, Bead round the heart, and then, like bubbles, burst. But tho' I knew the treachery of the cup, Thou wert the Hebe, and I drained it up. And now, as all repentingly I lie, Like some slow-sobering quaffer—wonder why.
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