But were I loved, as I desire to be,
What is there in the great sphere of the earth,
And range of evil between death and birth
That I should fear – if I were loved by thee?
All the inner, all the outer world of pain
Clear love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine,
As I have heard that, somewhere in the main,
Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine.
(Tennyson)
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