No ask me not of ‘love’ for I would fain
Let poets dip their pluck’d quills in the blood
Of bleeding hearts and write sonnets of pain,
Let broken promises espouse the flood
Of salted tears in white gowns burnt; then ask
The dead romantic if his grave is warm,
You won thy widow’s tears and failed life’s task,
So deep in love and shallow in high form.
Alas, what then of thou, oft giving heart?
Thou know’st arrows but not the bow, and still
Mindless in thy wrong, restless in thy craft,
Thou feed’st on hunger which wilt never fill.
Let me not live to love or love to live;
A soul seeks what a heart can never give.

— Sheamonspeare
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