Love
I will tell you what love is: Love is the broken
sound in the night of feet that pass. Unwoken,
the lover stirs in his sleep, and, while he stirs,
a foot has gone past in the night as light as hers.
I will tell you what love is: Love is the proud
mouth that was shut in marble, and the loud
songs of the world are sung on lips all warm,
but these cold lips sing not, and have worked such harm.
I will tell you what love does: Man builds a greater
city than Babylon with gardens, and love, turned traitor,
sells the high town to the dream's eternal foeman,
that comes with the false sweet key, by night, of a woman.
I will tell you how love ends: Without a sound
love stabs in the dark of the heart, and leaves no wound.
And what was a man goes slowly, listening
for a tune played on a harp, but it has no string.
I will tell you all these things, and when they are told,
I shall remember the austere head of gold,
his slender motionless grace, and how he stands
looking with happy wonder at the cowslips in his hands.