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by J. R. Eastwood

I gave the wealth of love for dross
Of falsehood, and I suffered loss:
For who shall tell the worth of love,
The light on earth from heaven above?

I sit and think of this, and see
The buried past that used to be:
And, in the dusk, the dying fire
Is flaming, ready to expire.

Love that is true is like the light
Of sun and stars, for ever bright:
Love that is false is like the fire,
The flames that flash and then expire.

And love that sells itself for gold
Is dear to buy, and cheap to hold:
And love that gives itself for love
Is light on earth from heaven above.

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