© 2017 Steve King
All rights reserved
I don’t know what there is to write of love,
though others fill such pages quite with ease.
I can’t distill all meanings as I please,
describe sensations which are true enough
to colonize all realms of thought. I pause
at each astonishment that visits me,
and every unsought thrill that comes to be,
and never work to wonder of their cause.
All sly analogies escape my care,
and each coquettish fancy that occurs
belies the feeling that ought only stir
in truest commerce with the heart’s affairs.
In grand
comparisons I will not delve,
for love should seem like nothing
save itself.
