Why is love my measure and my means?
My talk, my trouble, my idle thought obscene,
My crisis, my crux, my cri de coeur supreme?
Of all the arrows fitted for my ample quiver,
Or wrinkled routes eked out by many rivers,
Why is my sea love, love my apple ever?
Flowers come as varied as their seeds began;
Varied fall the fruits, and many the works of man;
Endless are our melodies, destinies, and dreams.
But my drum, though struck by a thousand hands,
Bangs one love, my harp–though by an angel band
Commanded–pleads love alone through every
For you are my love, my sun and my seed.
Toward you I grow, who answers my every need.