MY LOVE is warm in its own spring
that feeds on past and future days,
its roots go down, its branches fling
in the still rapture of its praise.
Here, icy pond’s hard loveliness
is bound by winter’s long distress —
but not my love,
but not my love.

The stubborn oak its rustling wears
beyond all hope of sun or sap
and every birch a trembling bears
in witness of the frost’s mishap.
In stillness sharp and stillness deep
all this my world is bound in sleep —
except my love,
except my love!

WHEN does a wrong
become a right,
when will a kiss
make deep the night,
when will a hand
on hungry hand
turn lust to selfless
need’s demand?
I do not know,
I do not know:
but true love still can make it so.

When does a man
have pure desire,
or woman be
unburnt by fire,
when will the thigh
on mortal thigh
turn flesh to spirit’s
deathless cry?
I do not know,
I do not know:
but true love still can make it so.