I fall in love,
I fall out of love,
stumbling around in the dark of love
like a blind man looking for his hands.
But what is really happening here,
that I nod in and out like a dreamer, half-awake?
The beauty of the sunrise has always been there.
I needn’t proclaim it, or sustain it. It manifestly is.
This, because a work of art has enduring quality,
if its connection to beauty be true.
So also, perhaps love can be a work of art.
With sufficient care, and devoted pain,
one day its nature is self-revealing:
No need to tell my friend, “I love you;”
the fact of living is all the proof we need.
I fall out of love,
stumbling around in the dark of love
like a blind man looking for his hands.
But what is really happening here,
that I nod in and out like a dreamer, half-awake?
The beauty of the sunrise has always been there.
I needn’t proclaim it, or sustain it. It manifestly is.
This, because a work of art has enduring quality,
if its connection to beauty be true.
So also, perhaps love can be a work of art.
With sufficient care, and devoted pain,
one day its nature is self-revealing:
No need to tell my friend, “I love you;”
the fact of living is all the proof we need.