Birds sing "I love you, love" the whole day through,
And not another song can they sing right;
But, singing done with, loving's done with quite,
The autumn sunders every twittering two.
And I'd not have love make too much ado
With sweet parades of fondness and delight,
Lest iterant wont should make caresses trite,
Love-names mere cuckoo ousters of the true.

Oh heart can hear heart's sense in senseless nought,
And heart that's sure of heart has little speech.
What shall it tell? The other knows its thought.
What shall one doubt or question or beseech
Who is assured and knows and, unbesought,
Possesses the dear trust that each gives each.

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

the night has a thousand eyes,
and the day but one;
yet the light of the bright world dies
with dying sun.

the mind has a thousand eyes,
and the heart but one;
yet the light of a whole life dies
when love is done.

love is not
love...
love is ***...!
love is not
love
love is money
love is not
love
love is a dream
love is not
love
love is states
love is not
love
love is sin

they look in the bowl
it is dark and and quiet
one stand alone
a poo is present
it glistens in the toilet water
the brown feels soft on my skin
'I didn't eat any corn'
I spoke to the poo within.