I would send roses, stars to my beloved
and bar no lilies from her feet.
Oh, I would send thrushes and martins skyward.
Hers alone would I be; how sure of love
we, who see only one another;
such blindness like a wind-swept sea, becalmed
becomes a kindness soon.
The ships sail homeward seeking port.
Love, unskilled but true, moves onward,
lost in the wake of arms and kisses,
then awakening at last, sees itself.
Storms and seas and kisses run aground
only love that’s lost is ever found.