This Is Not Love

This is not love: we cannot call it love.

Love would make me aware of infinite things,

Drive me down the spirit’s vast abyss

And through the narrow fastnesses of pain.

This is not love. Yet it holds loveliness

Beyond mere pleasure. Peace and passion both

Grow from the kiss with which I paint drab hours.

It is not love: love is for the gods

And our more godlike moments. Yet when stars

Withhold their splendor, why should we not light

Candles to warm with kindly mortal flames

The all-enfolding, cold, immortal night?