I write of love—for love alone most matters

Not only to the written but the read;

Words reft of rhyme oft seem prosaic chatter,

Where tepid ‘like’ stands proxy for love’s stead.

As arms embrace in manifested pleasure,

As souls commit in words that beckon tears,

As breast to breast so sways in dancing measure,

Shared joy and grief shall dissipate life’s fears.

So are we born unto a mother’s arms,

So to as lovers yet embrace again

And of proud union, sacred vows affirm

The harmony that heaven’s hope intends.

No greater truth yet blessed a listless earth,

For life devoid of love seems little worth.