Love has no way of knowing what it is,
Because it is so many things:
Lips, songs, the words to songs,
And the soul that listens when it sings.
Go—desperate lover, lost, thinking over
The endless disorder and discord of grief—
Into life which assails you: tears, tears,
Misunderstanding, tears drowning your intimate belief.
Love has no way of knowing if it comes or goes,
Or whether it loses or wins—
Love is horrible when it ends.
As it begins, begins, begins.