Perhaps I loved too little or too much,

Perhaps fate deemed that love should never be,

Perhaps I begged too hard for tender touch,

Or lacked the art to court a lover’s plea.

The cause of love is rarely ever clear

And how we choose seems often unforeseen,

As if what stirs the heart is simply near—

Propinquity, not passion writes the scene.

Most times it seems that consorts’ faces mirror,

Each finding in the other half their own,

By arrogance or oddity quite queer—

Her face much his, though painted, plucked and toned.

That one should seek a face so much the same,

Suggests, perhaps, that self-love lights the flame.