YOU ask me, What is love? It is a craving
To spin the dawdling globe with a flicked finger
Till meeting come, and then
To slow it down again
To a snail's pace, with desperate hands cleaving
To its painted sides, that joy may last the longer.

It is to walk armoured, yet stripped: to welcome
A broken bone, if the loved one's eye be on you,
And yet to shrink dismayed
From an ungentle word.
It is to see as far, as clear as a falcon,
And stumble over a stone in the path before you.

It is to go all day with a lamp shining
In your heart; to which, when comes a pause from labour
Or when the numbing crowd
Drifts for a while aside,
You find yourself like a moth to candle turning
To warm your thoughts at its white and secret ardour.