George Henry Boker

Love is that orbit . . .

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Love is that orbit of the restless soul
Whose circle grazes the confines of space,
Bounding within the limits of its race
Utmost extremes; whose high and topmost pole
Within the very glaze of heaven doth roll;
Whose nether course is through the darkest place
Eclipsed by hell. What daring hand shall trace
The blended joys and sorrows that control
A heart whose journeys the fixed hand of Fate
Points through this pathway? Who may soar so high, --
Behold such glories with unwinking eye?
Who drop so low beneath his mortal state,
And thence return with careful chart and date,
To mark which way another's course must lie?

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George Henry Boker