A love like a fountain which waits for rain
To flood its terraces, which bears devotion
In artificed vats and there constrains
In its own dispositions; you’re not resigned
To such love, you say–such love you say is mine.
To, aloof, regard such artful imaging–
As artful as a drying rose or posed nude;
To say a truth may seem but cannot be,
Yet plea as truth such apothegm like-shone
Through mortal gem as reason’s headstone,
Is a failure of pride. Love, rigorous,
Works in the mind; it’s pause between the heart
And its word stirring this doubt within that blind.