||[Jan. 8th, 2005|09:17 am]
A lover must be blind, it seems, and love|
Itself doled out with careless charity;
Dispensed like showers, fawning blizzards of
All-covering awe, that someone should love me.
This love: a child kept helpless, starved and blind,
Who cannot see the fist about to strike,
Who reaches out his arms, hoping to find
Care where it fell before, today alike.
No, love me with the fine blade of your wit,
With all your judgement's careful scrutiny.
Dull not nor blunt your intellect to fit
A cheap and easy sentiment. Love me
With all the passion of a connoisseur
For details, sweet and tender pedant mine.
Accept no less than that you would prefer;
For I, in turn, appraise you line by line.
Their love's a thing of artless lies and prayers,
A dog's devotion, given without pause.
Our love, sweet name for sweeter trade of wares,
Could not be written without term and clause;
Thus joy for joy we barter piece by piece,
Intent each on our pleasure, shrewd and brash.
You are the sweetest prize; so rather lease
Your charms than give them free, as worthless trash.
You shall, my love, not love me evermore,
For I shan't love myself forever - no,
For I shan't be myself forever; nor
Shall you. We change, and love must change, or so
We'll soon become ill-formed for pleasure, sore
And chafed by fetters that no longer fit.
E'en if it only lasts a day, no more-
Yes, love me with the fine blade of your wit.