Alfred Lord Tennyson

It is the miller’s daughter,
   And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
   That trembles in her ear;
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle
   About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
   In sorrow and I in rest;
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,
   And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
   With her laughter or her sighs;
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.

      Love that hath us in the net,
      Can he pass, and we forget?
      Many suns arise and set;
      Many a chance the years beget;
      Love the gift is Love the debt.
                      Even so.
      Love is hurt, with jar and fret;
      Love is made a vague regret;
      Eyes with idle tears are wet;
      Idle habit links us yet.
      What is love? for we forget:
                      Ah, no! no!