Now the lover feels, when he loves,
Her sweet and breathing body is enough,
Yet, playing the very instrument,
He wonders where her music went.
Her smiles and words of sweetest grace
Now exist in another place.
To love’s rolling, ecstatic eye
Music and words do not apply.
Where is the poet? Where is the love?
And thoughts? That once were enough?
Lovers are silent, and in a hurry.
Words are from hurt, and worry.
Words are from sorrow and fear of death,
When limbs are weak and weak, the breath.
But when we sighed in those distant rooms
There was almost joy in those glooms.
When we courted with our words
And sang to each other like birds
Or were silent for hours, hoping with fear,
Love was actually here,
Hoping desperately deception
Was not hidden in love’s’ reception,
There was a joy in this,
That, in hope, was almost bliss.
When I was courting,
My poems did their best reporting;
Oh God! those hopeful sighs
Were almost paradise.
Now that selfish love is gone,
Beautiful thoughts still linger on,
Now words are our greatest friends,
Poems, of sweet beginnings, and even sweeter ends.
We say to ourselves, with a sigh,
“Eventually a word will happen by,
One, by this sweet occasion fit,
And it will be love when I am saying it.”
The thought is what carries us through the life,
Since thoughts are words and a word marries us to a wife.
Words comfort us out of the air
When nothing but heaviness is there.
So when your lover is naked over there,
Remember the words that brought her there.
Remember the thoughts which will clothe her when
She comes back to the world again.