My love, you do distrust my love
for it had beginning, & so bounded
will have end. How could I prove
the contrary, save to deny
my birth, my death,
& with the breath
that this negation sounded
turn my very being to a lie?
My being true, my beating heart, must cease,
but death is meagre price for love’s increase.
Think too, if I outside of time
did love, & all of history perceived
as ever present: what crime
would I not commit,
loving not one,
but one billion,
& each by millions more deceived?
A love so constant & so infinite
would see you as a pebble from on high:
a grain of sand in my eternal eye.
That you are not. My world is filled
by you, & though it was not always so,
you are everywhere. Had you willed
to exchange time for space
you could love too;
alas, the new
threatens all we seem to know,
founded on a past, not on a place.
That it was once not thus, makes it not untrue;
I saw you suddenly, now see only you.
My love, do not distrust my love,
though you may think its object is not you
but love itself, & that I wove
this verse for words alone.
It is not so,
for these words show
my mind in plainest view,
& not to see that is to see with stone.
You are not incidental, as you fear:
my mind, heart, arms are open for you here.