Love

Love is an airy fleeting thing,
But even a hint can make one sing,
Yet Love can make a legacy,
Of broken hearts and tearful melancholy,
A cruel master is this thing called Love,
Sometimes the torturer, sometimes the dove,
And yet when those with sadness pray,
They pray for love, or so they say,
But in them cruel Love has found its prey,
So why your wisdom, you delay,
In the haste of Love, lovers lay,
And when Love leaves, their worlds turned grey,
And this tyrant, many forget,
Makes war between friends in stages set,
Tall and terrible as the Trojan War,
When Paris with the guilt he bore,
Stayed with Helen, and doomed them all,
To the Greeks to whom Troy did fall,
But Love will make do with any war,
Therefore Love must one be wary for.

Note that this is my first submission so don't be too angry with me for being terrible.