Posted on Monday, 27 September 1999, at 2 : 35 a.m.

This is just a little poem on what he might have been thinking before their meeting at Pemberley, when he thought it hopeless

True love does not ask, does not give, does not take.

It merely exists.

It lent me a ghost of your eyes and dark hair

And the turn of your wrists.

Through pain, through my anger, and bitter heartbreak,

My lesson was this:

All hope might gone, but all love will be there,

Love's soul in a kiss.

I spend my days dreaming, and my nights awake,

But love will not cease:

It lent me a ghost of your eyes and dark hair,

The pain of my bliss.