To probe the depths of why or how I love.
We lovers are more fools the more we ask
What lurks behind our kisses, what the mask
Of rotting flesh conceals. Surely I love.
Surely? Great heaven, who would tell the moon
That she’s the light when she herself is cold?
Without your love mine would be growing old;
Without your eyes, mine would be ashes soon.
III.
Ashes? Yet there is something infinite