If the food of love be poetry or not,
I only judge half our love
Yet, lest the happiness be forgot.
For every time you made me cry,
It was cancelled out by joy.
And after all, love continues to try.
To resurrect what we had before,
In a gilded autumn ignored; seeming lost
Yet love keeps tapping at the door.
If we could have one glimpse of the past,
Or wander in that magic wood again,
Would the memories let us pass
Into a locked garden and through the door
To open a trunk filled with gold,
And fill our hearts once more?
December 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
If the food of love be poetry or not,
I only judge half our love
Yet, lest the happiness be forgot.
For every time you made me cry,
It was cancelled out by joy.
And after all, love continues to try.
To resurrect what we had before,
In a gilded autumn ignored; seeming lost
Yet love keeps tapping at the door.
If we could have one glimpse of the past,
Or wander in that magic wood again,
Would the memories let us pass
Into a locked garden and through the door
To open a trunk filled with gold,
And fill our hearts once more?
December 4, 2018
This was started as an answer to Lizzie Bennet's sour analysis of love in Pride and Prejudice...but it evolved, as these usually do.
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