There is nothing more loving than the loving eye,
No matter how heavily the blind, or the physically unattractive, sigh.
Beautiful delight
Impregnates my sight
With hues of sculpture moving,
If sight is sex, I am always loving.
It’s true—no lover can be true who has an eye.
Love loves what it sees, and loves the beautiful, truly.
The loving eye loves morally, too,
Seeing the sneer, or the vacant look,
Seeing at a glance when beauty is fake.
The eye has a mind beneath its lake.
I know you will love the cloud or the bee
As much as you love me.
But the loving eye is always knowing
When danger or love is coming or going
By that vast light which ponders the light
Of risk and love and safety in the shadow
Where seeing sees deftly in the night
Where understanding and the shadows go.
Even when we hear—in love, or fear,
We ask, “What am I seeing here?”
The heart has no mind but to beat and die.
We love each other best—as we live—with the eye.