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All speak of love which hardly loves at all (Sonnet)
All speak of love which hardly loves at all.
Most do, few don't, and some despise for long.
Though, 'tis not one of such; this breaks the wall
Which blinds one from his legend's singing song.
This land which bears our very symphony,
Of bloodshed epics by heroic blood
And ballads sung for all thy heavenly,
The very mother and all wisdom's god.
This perpetuates, though ages gone
And molds itself through time for its own pace.
These tales that tell the trouble life has done,
Or deeds of good, or grief, or soaring days.
Henceforth, let not our nightingale to bed,
For 'tis wherefore our voices' light is shed.