Love, take no prisoner, no object take,
When like captureth like, joy to enjoy,
The subject in the taking doth destroy
Subject and object both, image to make.
Passion alloweth pain; love for the sake
Of love leave giveth, free from any ploy
Or sly devising of a tool, a toy,
A dreamworld unattainable awake...
To move, to change, to grow...or to stand still.
To laugh, to cry, to dance...or stay asleep.
The giver disappeareth in the act
And leaveth nothing but the yielded will,
No promise, nor a souvenir to keep:
Thou art, you are...be lov'd...in truth and fact.
Here
Could love have e'er been such a narrow path?
It spreadeth now like wings or op'ning arms,
The glow of smiles dispelling binding charms
Of strictures into which I plac'd my faith.
...And am I loving, or am I belov'd?
My heart extendeth beyond metaphor,
Translating, porting joys unknown before,
To our terrain, from symbol-chart remov'd.
Here am I...this is seeing from a height
All the experiment that I embrace...
Or, that I can no more guard jealously...
Words falter...am I right? Or are we right?
There's only sense of being in this place:
I am not; I am here, and here is me.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXIII