You, who don’t read, must think it strange
That I use my eyes
Not to navigate moving seas—
Not to chart moving orbs in the skies—
Not to pick out the one
I love under the sun—
But to squint instead at marks,
Which deface trees and parks.
What eyes could possibly love to look
At looking in a book?
Why seek freedom in prisons?
Beauty in blind words? Smiles in dark, visionless visions?
I’ll tell you why. Please read well:
Loving one by sight, I found myself in hell.
All that could go wrong in love, had.
Her beauty hurt me. It was bad.
I was drowning in vulgarity and sin.
I couldn’t think. Ugly images poured in.
Then a beautiful poet wrote to me.
I was protected from her beauty,
And found more beauty apart from piercing eyes;
Into our hearts poured the beauty of the skies,
And writing to her I found a calm, admiring bliss;
We felt love, and something close to the happiness of a kiss.
Beauty without beauty—the secret to intelligence and grace.
Beauty sending beauty. Love sent ahead by her beautiful face.