old thoughts

somehow open-hand and hearted words are here upon my tongue;
you're treating me like it isn't stained dark with forbidden fruits.
why does the bread rise only after it's entombed under a dishcloth?
when does the chick know to possess its yellow fluff and muscle its way out?
and why, why, why o Lord of knowing, why must i be weariness and blood,
doubt your strength in each minute, but not your eternal victory?

i love you now like i wanted you all my life

**********************************************************************************

Prelude

How could I love you more?
I would give up
Even that beauty I have loved too well
That I might love you better.
Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give—
I can but give you of my flesh and strength,
I can but give you these few passing days
And passionate words that, since our speech began,
All lovers whisper in all ladies’ ears.

I try to think of some one lovely gift
No lover yet in all the world has found;
I think: If the cold sombre gods
Were hot with love as I am
Could they not endow you with a star
And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?
Could they not give you all things that I lack?

You should have loved a god; I am but dust.
Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.

-Richard Aldington