"When passion is dead, or absent, then the magnificent throb of beauty is incomprehensible and even a little despicable."

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Unless you can muse in a crowd all day On the absent face that fixed you; Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving; Unless you can die when the dream is past — Oh, never call it loving!

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning