Love
is not itself if it is not won,
If it is not grasped for and sought after,
Love is a journey not a condition.
It is a lifelong exultant laughter.
Love cries like sailors’ constant petitions,
To join their ship that salvages the heart,
From absorbing waters of division
That form maelstroms to tear true love apart.
So where is thine own love, thy man of bronze?
Where is He to win thy heart and thy hand?
Does he sit in a boat on a lake of swans?
Does he wait by water on calescent sand?
Or has he already lowly been seen,
Born amongst hay and dying on a tree?
No comments:
Post a Comment