Men sought, ambition's thirst to slake,
The lost elixir old
Whose magic touch should instant make
The meaner metals gold.
A nobler alchymy is thine
Which love from pain doth press:
Gold in thy hand becomes divine,
Grows truth and tenderness.
To Lady Noel Byron
George Macdonald
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Poem topics: lost, magic, pain, truth, touch, divine, thine, love, I love you, gold, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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