What Is Love
What is love, and who has measured its depth, its width?
Who has gone all its circuit round amidst galaxies, stars
And oceans bottomless? Who has in its hollow middle sit
And drank its patient peace and fought in its unforgiving wars?
Who have been withered, wounded, promised, florished
In the ebb and flow of its tides? O have you felt its birth,
The sudden flash of lightening, and heart's thunder ditched
Deep in the silent veins? The sudden fast, the wicked hurt
The ball of rejection you cannot catch, and the sleepless
Night brimming with broken dreams, can you more endure?
What is love, this harrowing and ploughing and harvest
Of the soul, this malady of the mind without a known cure?
O love you tire me longing so, but I cannot ever let you go
For the sea of self and loneliness, in the sky without wings
The torrent of the fall, the drowning in the swelling flow
Is eminent, eminent, eminent, you are the raft of fools and kings.
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