A woman is the one who says no.
Her slightest yes is always to know
Her razor existence of no after no.
Her slightest yes is always to know
Better, better, if she had said no.
The woman, dear woman! is the one who says no.
But know that love can never say no.
No is never in love, you know.
We all know what no is for.
But love is never stopped by a door.
Beautiful, wanting love comes in
Past strong doors and discussions of sin.
If the woman says yes—but the man says no,
By her yes, triumphant, he makes her known.
The soul as a yes becomes so known
The safety and dignity of no is overthrown.
The soul would rather be alone,
The soul wants by no to be known.
The yes, in a few shadows, loftily grown
Is unspeakable,
Crowned with yes by the crowd, and known.
They heard a door, behind which a groan
Led in its ravishing pride to a throne
Bright, inviolate, tall, and alone
Which they saw in the darkness.
No one wants by yes to be known.
The yes is fated to die by the no.
No is never for love, you know.
His yes to her yes: then she will know
Possession, desire—she must not say no.
Love is not yes, and love is not no.
Love is beautiful, but nothing we know.
Ponder the no, calculate the yes,
But never say it. The slightest yes
Is not for love. Love has nothing to do with yes.
No is the door, and the heartbeat, and the dress.
No is the earth and the earth that’s here.
No was peace enjoyed last year.
Lust knows but a few things:
One song always sung, singing always, once it sings.