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Communism is not love. Communism is a hammer which we use to crush the enemy.

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I have not love, enough...

I have not love, enough...
To tempt birds from trees
nor even less the angels
on an ever static breeze...

I have not love, enough...
To love you, as you do, me
I have not love, enough...?
In my heart to set, you; fre...

I have not love, enough...
My dear one, for even me...
for even me... Alone, you see...

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Away, thou shalt not love me

Away, thou shalt not love me.
So shall my love seem greater
And I shall love the better.
Shall it be so? what say you?
Why speak you not I pray you?
Nay then I know you love me
That so you may disprove me.

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William Butler Yeats

O Do Not Love Too Long

SWEETHEART, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed --
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

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Song XI. - Perhaps it is not love

Perhaps it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh;
Where wit and sense like hers agree,
One may be pleased, and yet be free.

The beauties of her polish'd mind
It needs no lover's eye to find;
The hermit freezing in his cell
Might wish the gentle Flavia well.

It is not love-averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts dispel-it is not love.

Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
In any form less fair than thine?
It is-it is love's subtle fire,
And under friendship lurks desire.

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There's a fire in my veins- but it's not love

There's a fire in my veins- but it's not love.
There's sweat on my brow- but not from danger;
There's fire in my veins,
And I'm feeling quite insane-
Think I'm turning into a stranger.

There's a fire in my veins- but it's not love.
There's a flush on my face, but not from ire;
There's a fire all the same,
Like the cooling has waned-
Think I'll be my own funeral pyre?

There's a fire in my veins- but it's not love.
There's some sweat running down for no reason;
I'm sure it would be treason,
If I said this thing was easin'-
Think womanhood is just out of season?

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Pablo Neruda

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

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Pablo Neruda

Sonnet LXVI: I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

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Sonnet XXVII: Is Not Love Here

Is not Love here as 'tis in other climes,
And differeth it, as do the several nations?
Or hath it lost the virtue with the times,
Or in this island altereth with the fashions?
Or have our passions lesser power than theirs,
Who had less art them lively to express?
Is Nature grown less powerful in their heirs,
Or in our fathers did she more transgress?
I am sure my sighs come from a heart as true
As any man's that memory can boast,
And my respects and services to you
Equal with his that loves his mistress most.
Or nature must be partial to my cause,
Or only you do violate her laws.

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Sonnet XXXIV: Marvel Not, Love

To Admiration

Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire,
Ravish'd a world beyond the farthest thought,
And knowing more than ever hath been taught,
That I am only starv'd in my desire.
Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire,
Aiming at things exceeding all perfection,
To Wisdom's self to minister correction,
That I am only starv'd in my desire.
Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire,
Though my conceit I further seem to bend
Than possibly invention can extend,
And yet am only starv'd in my desire.
If thou wilt wonder, here's the wonder, Love:
That this to me doth yet no wonder prove.

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William Shakespeare

Sonnet 141: In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine cars with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone;
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

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I Do Not Love You

I do not love you,
Hence I would not lie to you.
I do love you,
Yet I crave to leave you.

I do not love you
Yet I am happy with you
I do love you
Yet a burden you are to me.

I do not love you
Yet when gone I miss you
And think about you,
Till the night see the day

I do not love you
Yet my bone grow weak without you
I do love you
Yet I am stronger without you

I do not love you
Hence do not leave me
For the thought of death hovers
Aimlessly on wings in my mind

I cannot hate you
My sweetest love
Though I want to leave you
I cannot deceive you

I do not love you
Yet strong bond lies between us
Oh my sweetest love
I do love you

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Love Is Not Love

Love is not love if it comes with thought of condition;
A heart is not alive unless it is capable of submission
To the ardor it holds for another that naught may explain.
Love is not love if but mere time may sustain
Not, the fervor of same-
As though an eternal flame
That is subject to the sands of time;
So long as word, at the hands of rhyme,
May proffer explication of its lasting power,
It shall stand not prey, to the passing hour!
Love is not love if it bends, buckles, or breaks:
Love is subject but to the same it makes
Of another and contrariwise, naught more-
It is not our's to wonder: 'how? ', or 'what for? '.

-Maurice Harris,24 May 2012

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Pablo Neruda

Sonnet XVII: I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

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Its Not Love, But Its Not Bad

(glen martin/hank cochran)
He was always there each time I needed you,
Holding on to me like I held on to you
We still dont have what you and I once had
No, its not love, but its not bad.
No, its not love, not like our love its not love,
But it keeps love from driving me mad
And I dont have to wonder who hes had
No, its not love but its not bad
I turn to him when you leave me alone,
Sometimes even when youre here youre still gone.
Hes slowly changing what you leave so sad
No, its not love, but its not bad
No, its not love, not like our love its not love,
But it keeps love from driving me mad
And I dont have to wonder who hes had
No, its not love but its not bad
No, its not love but its not bad

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If She Do Not Love Me, Or Regard Me (Collins Sestets)

Will I over her be in some despair
as she is beautiful, in her looks fair,
like a blossom on a early spring day,
a fruit tree where all of the small birds play;
if she do not love me, or regard me,
what will I care, even if she is lovely?

How can she somehow come to my own mind
even if she is graceful, very kind,
even if she is tranquil by nature
and slenderness is of her a feature;
if she do not love me, or regard me,
what will I care, even if she is lovely?

If she cares for me true, her I will woo,
some pleasant things, all in my power do,
nothing to somehow cause her any grieve
while in her sincerity I will believe;
if she do not love me, or regard me,
what will I care, even if she is lovely?

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Pablo Neruda

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


Translated by Stephen Tapscott

Anonymous Submission

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Not Love Perhaps

This is not Love, perhaps,
Love that lays down its life,
that many waters cannot quench,
nor the floods drown,
But something written in lighter ink,
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.

A need, at times, to be together and talk,
And then the finding we can walk
More firmly through dark narrow places,
And meet more easily nightmare faces;
A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand,
And then find Earth less like an alien land;
A need for alliance to defeat
The whisperers at the corner of the street.

A need for inns on roads, islands in seas,
Halts for discoveries to be shared,
Maps checked, notes compared;
A need, at times, of each for each,
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.

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All That's Not Love . . .

All that's not love is the dearth of my days,
The leaves of the volume with rubric unwrit,
The temple in times without prayer, without praise,
The altar unset and the candle unlit.


Let me survive not the lovable sway
Of early desire, nor see when it goes
The courts of Life's abbey in ivied decay,
Whence sometime sweet anthems and incense arose.


The delicate hues of its sevenfold rings
The rainbow outlives not; their yellow and blue
The butterfly sees not dissolve from his wings,
But even with their beauty life fades from them too.


No more would I linger past Love's ardent bounds
Nor live for aught else but the joy that it craves,
That, burden and essence of all that surrounds,
Is the song in the wind and the smile on the waves.

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It is not Love it is Madness

(You say) It is not love, it is madness
My madness may be the cause of your fame
Sever not my relationship with you
If nothing then be my enemy
What is the meaning of notoriety in meeting me
If not in public court meet me alone
I am not my own enemy
So what if the stranger is in love with you
Whatever you are, it is due to your own being
If this not known then it is ignorance
Life though fleets like a lightening flash
Yet it is abundant Time to be in love
I do not want debate on the sustenance of love
Be it not love but another dilemma
Give something O biased One
At least the sanction to cry and plea
I will perpetuate the rituals
Even if cruelty be your habit
Teasing and cajoling the beloved cannot leave 'Asad'
Even if there is no union and only the desire remains

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Love is not love

Love is not love when you fall in love

The love poems that are littered in every literature

Are sheer cries of the egotistic flesh

For the gratification of the self at the cost of the addressee

Hence love poems in the right sense of the term

Are seldom composed by the youth

Love is love only when it seeks the happiness of the addressee

Not to gratify the egotistic senses of the addressor

It is the grandfather who knows true love

With him all the children are dear ones

An agony of love tears his heart

He wants to embrace all of them

He wants to hug every child and every young man and woman

And plunge in an ecstasy

Ecstasy is not ecstasy when it is given a tongue

The world might be a better one

When old age writes poetry

Solidly seated on the throne of its elements

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