Socrates tried to tell you love, which creates and desires,
Is better than reasonable friendship, putting out all the fires.
The quarrel is between poetry and philosophy;
What you got wrong is poetry is the friend—
And philosophy, love. And since you are wrong, both for you must end.
When I wrote my poems to you, love came through my words;
Sparrows sang of love—you had never noticed these birds.
You never noticed the humility of the bees hovering,
Those dark hairs, the soft covering.
Poetry made every creature seem
Friendlier; love was a pleasant dream.
But cold philosophy lives in poetry,
My poetry was never
Merely a friendly gesture—
I was creating myself and you
As one mind, hating all things
Except death, and because of death, the true.
You felt my poems were the gift of a friend.
Philosophy begins when my poems end.
Leave the poems. Look at the bees.
It’s time you let philosophy please.
I quit, having been paid by you
With love. But the poet wanted to be true.