overrated and yet so intimidat

The Ballad of the Unseen Tide Sing, Muse, of Love, that boundless, surging sea, Whose nature baffles mortal scrutiny. Some voices whisper low, with cynical sound, That Love's bright banner is but falsely crowned. They call it fleeting fancy, airy breath, A brief enchantment yielding only death Of high-flown hopes, a stage where fools still tread, And count the cost when all their dreams are dead. They claim its worth is measured by the pain, A shallow stream that struggles through the rain. But hark! A greater chorus takes the air, That speaks of beauty past all earthly compare. Love is no phantom born of fleeting mist, But solid grace by purest heavens kissed. It is the dawn that paints the eastern skies, Reflected deep within adoring eyes. It is the strength that lifts the weary soul, And makes the fragmented spirit truly whole. A tapestry woven, thread by golden thread, From silent comfort and the words unsaid. Oh, pure it shines, a diamond in the rough, When stripped of all the worldly, tinsel stuff. It asks no tribute, seeks no grand return, But only wills the other heart to learn The gentle language whispered on the breeze, That rustles softly through the ancient trees. It