Love makes no music
If all its logic
Is kiss and kiss
And solitude.
For men on maps
May sigh perhaps
But turn to face
A murdering flood.
And handsome ones
Johns, Tristrans
Storm embassies
But get no good.
And though they pray
Their ship’s away
Before they raise
Their wiser blood.
Jane, Isolde,
Wait and grow older.
Their obsequies:
He never could.
For men on maps
May love perhaps
But love’s last face
Must mask, go shrewd.
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