There is so much to love,
And you were so loving—
How did I think you would love only me?
To write a poem I thought of nothing but it,
And to love, my love loves narrowly.
So I write poems and love. And you?
There is so much to love. I have no idea what you do.
Love defeats love. With so much to love,
Love can’t keep up with love;
Love becomes diffuse;
Love becomes something merely for use.
But love must be scarce to be love,
Love to be love, must almost disappear.
The strangeness of love was that you, whom I loved,
Was the source of my fear.