A Solliloquy with Two Interruptions

Love! The question, the quest,
The inquiry which demands an answer
And an answer which it cannot get.
If I should shout Love to the mountains,
Out over steep hill and down to valley,
I would receive merely my own echo,
Nothing new, nothing fresh, nothing worthy.
There is no name for the fear that
Rises in one’s breast and blocks the eyesight.
What word is so worthy of blindness, the ill news,
The decapitation and dismemberment,
The debilitation of love! It is a dire mystery.

You speak of love as though it were the plague!

Ay, the plague! It is a plague, it is the plague,
That plagues the masses and thwarts the courtiers carriages.
To be in love is to surrender the capability to walk,
To hang up one’s shoes, and lie all day in bed
In some lonely aching agony, yes, aye, the plague.

I would it were that you die from such a plague.

Oh, my lady, it will be you and Love together
That hatch a plot for my demise. The mere sight of you weakens me
A putrid, hacking cough spews wicked lines
Of ink onto good papers! A smell lingers from the rot
Of Love within me. You will bring me down
For to be without you is to hate the very thought of love.
But to will it were that I be with you
Is to suspend all evil, all good, all reason
To make the floor change places with the rooftops
To float, like the clouds, just above the end of the sky.
I would suffer that plague for such a dream, and gladly.
It feels that never shall I dream again but for you
That you would spring open the doors and give me
Back my heart, my voice, my knees that I may walk and pray.
But a fool’s dream of miracles, to keep him as he ends his day.

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