Pure lack of wit it is to love
Such rapt, unconscious, graceful sprites,
All quivering with social fire.
Love is unsatisfied desire,
Unsocial, sad in its delights,
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Senorita mia.
But since the folly holds me fast,
I hide it quickly from her sight,
Or state it calmly; it may be
Its sadness may strike pleasantly
Across ambrosial delight,
Senorita mia.
G.