How rare a thing is love that tends two hearts
toward each other, simultaneous,
with no contrivance, no mechanic parts,
uncultivated, full spontaneous.
How lovely is the conflict when one rides
to war, expecting pain to be endured,
and finds instead the battle has no sides,
and victory already is secured.
And how delightful it must be to find
by one's own garden stream a shady tree,
untended, extant since before our kind.
How rare! How precious such a thing must be!
I marvel at such futile treasures; yet,
for you, I will protect, forget, regret.
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