Should love feel like coming home?
Like shelter after you roam?
Like peace and quiet and hope and sleep?
Like a safe pair of arms in which to softly weep?

Or is it adventure we seek?
When on our lips of love we speak?
Within you you feel a fire burn,
For love's the adventure for which you yearn.

But perhaps my dearest, sweetest you,
Both of these loves are always true,
And in your love I've always found,
Both kinds tend to be abound