The private self cannot be loved.
Celebrity love is really true.
Love is only a public love.
In private, she’s annoyed by you.
Everything offends
Our group, and its public membership never ends;
You thought, by stealing into this private cave
You would escape all the offended crave:
Justice for every public insult publicly jotted down
Or whispered in the public ear, dancing in a racy gown,
Heavy coats-of-arms hanging on the wall,
Bonafides with slender hands and tall,
A privacy that has no privacy at all;
Nothing backs it up, nowhere at the end of the day
To go; nothing’s nice; public notice will have its public pay.
Should you stumble into the private arms of one
Who rendered once, public proof of love, sorry, the sun
Has new sets of eyes, a public is always burning
New surfaces; only publicly is love now learning
Our truth: privacy is nothing—only the dark,
Where fleet hounds who kissed you, bark.