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The Ring of the Dove

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True love is not a flower

That springeth in an hour;

Its flint will not strike fire

At casual desire.


Love is an infant rare

Begotten, slow to bear;

Its lime must mingle long

Before its base is strong.


And then not soon will it

Be undermined, and split;

Firm will its structure stand,

Its fabric still expand.


This truth is readily

Confirmed, because we see

That things too quickly grown

Are swiftly overthrown.


Mine is a stubborn soil

To plough with arduous toil,

Intractible indeed

To tiller and to seed.


But once the roots begin

To strike and thrive therein,

Come bounteous rain, come drought,

The lusty stem will sprout.


- Ibn Hazam

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