What is love

"Love is the greatest thing," the poet said;
But I looked back at him and shook my head.
"Love?" I questioned.   "What is love?" I asked.
He looked at me.   His look seemed quite perplexed.

"Why, love," he answered, "Is the heart of man,
Seeking what he most desires where'er he can;
And caring for this thing beyond himself,
Regardless of its state, its poverty or health."

"Such love is what can make a life complete,
Fulfilment of the very heart of man.
Without it there is nothing.   I repeat, 
Love is enough.  It ends as it began."

I doubted and remained still unconvinced;
His argument had no effect on me.
"It seems," I answered, "That you are entranced
And blinded to the things you will not see."

"For love," I said, "is selfish in its aims,
Seeking only what it can possess;
And making too its own egotist claims
On what it says it loves.   This is distress!"

"Not so," the artist then claimed in reply.
The sage added his own answer as well.
"Love only tries to tell us of the why,
The how and what; love really can be hell."

And he expanded on this thought awhile:
"There's hurt in love, rejection, bitter pain,
That can be borne with gentleness and smile,
Knowing at the last it will bring gain."


"The love that dies upon the cross is such;
It carries in itself another's wound.
I warrant that this love will gain so much
As in the world has never yet been found."

I left and spent my time in deepest thought,
Pondering their replies, amazed at what they said;
For I had learned of love which souls had bought
Restoring man to God where Love had bled.


And gazing at an image of the crucified,
I wept for love of the Divine here nailed.
I knew it was for me that He had died,
To pay my debts and gain what God entailed.


This is the only Love.   All others fade and die.
I wish to love like this, to give my life as well.
To share this Love with all I meet, is my reply,
Sharing with them the road away from hell.