Donald P. Goodman III
When two are join'd to one, an angel sings a song; the hearts of all who know them sing out and are glad; as earth turns 'round the sun, this joy should last so long; as doves with feathers, ever with this love they're clad. But equally with sorrow they will soon be fill'd; the daily struggles they will meet will wear them down, as coals, remov'd from fire, soon darken and are chill'd, the smiles of love replac'd with weariness's frown. But love is not enthusiasm; longing smiles are but the dry and crumbling crust of soil not till'd, while under it is rich and black, and goes for miles, a wealth affection lacks, which only love can build.
For feeling flits like flies which flee the swatter's blow, while love alone endures its flight and still may grow.