I do not know of love quite yet.
Perhaps a blossom in the gale:
A fragile thing that yields to let
Any dominant wind prevail.
Maybe seed scattered to the earth,
On gravel, or in shallow graves.
While weeds may choke to death its worth,
Or its tread on, or barely saved.
It could be firmer than the oak,
A strong and many-splendored thing.
Calamities its name invokes
May be mere lesser, foolish flings.
I fear my love has always been
A walking shadow, a part to play.
All sound and fury, but empty wind
That gambols on at close of day.
Perhaps I’ve never loved at all,
Even I, who has been loved so well.
Perhaps within my heart’s stone walls
Only icy blood may swell.