The ardour, so it seemed, had flagged, grown cold,
And love been smothered by the pangs of guilt
Until, once again, there came that flame of old
Which had been kindled when the fire was built.
Is it that every passion grows then wanes?
Why so? Why - from the nature of the heart,
Which must consolidate the wealth it gains,
Deny the latter any chance to part.
So in the classic game of give and take,
Whose rules, unwritten, yet are eloquent,
The prudent player aims to place their stake
Where love and luck each other complement.
It isn't that I love you any less,
But that I doubt to be so deeply blessed.
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