We are learning the language of love’s free men.
With loving lines our lessons begin,
and we are guests at the Master’s banquet meal:
wherein love’s secret magic word’s revealed.
The freedom of love is the freedom of speech;
the gift of words is our gift to each.
With words we listen, remember, and teach.
With simple words we find, we reach.
Words are the coin in the reign of love,
and we two trade often herewith.
I her cedar tree; she my dove.
By words, we cherish and we live.
I, I little know myself: known, but unknown;
in many battles, but my mettle yet unshown.
She, serenely listens; she repeats my words,
and courage is revived, and dignity bestirred.
I, I little know myself: lost, but found;
she knows me. She knows all, and surrounds
all my doubts, and with gentle hand she stills
all my fears, then revives my weary will.
I am a doubtful warrior, an errant knight,
and she: my maiden, joy, and delight.
I spoke, I told her, and she repeats:
words like pure honey, ineffably sweet.
If she speaks blessing, let all the curses
be damned, and let them do their worst.
And if she speaks praise, then I am at peace,
and from prison I fly: a captive released.
She, she is shy and certainly unsure.
She leans on me when I lean on her.
She rests in the shade of my praise,
and finds here shelter in harsher days.
She is lovely and holy, for she is beloved and holy.
She is ever more lovely through omnipotent poetry.
I declare that she is lovely and thus I make it so;
for words have power to create and to bestow.
Thus, we fear to speak too little; not much
crosses me that her words do not touch.
When I am lost, with words she does seek.
The freedom of love is the freedom of speech.
My words are her pallete, and how she does paint!
She mixes colors to frenzy in restless restraint.
She composes masterpieces in my colorless soul;
here I am painted white, and green, and gold.
I define her, and she defines me
with opulent and ideal visions of potential.
With words playful but reverential:
we are who we are; we become what we might be.