Those Who Love by Sara Teasdale
I should be wise. One way or the other.
Those Who Love
Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile, inconsequent things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride,
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.
beautiful poem. but to talk about ‘love’ is a silliness. it can never be framed, it will always elude exposition.