The Brook
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.... - Alfred Lord Tennyson
So is life.
Forlorn, for till you attain, there is only sadness..
Immaculate, for I couldn't find anything purer..
Impossible: Didn't you see it from the beginning?
Imperceptible, for if it was, it wouldn't be as forlorn..
For you can love without being loved.. and that doesn't make it any dearer
