How does love mature into a garden?
A wild field, of course, need not be wed.
Pure pleasure tends the softest soil to harden;
Perhaps the heart requires that tears be shed.
Yearning blooms when it becomes a song,
A melody that savors its own beauty;
Nor will requited passion linger long
Not stroked from time to time by naked duty.
In gardens one defines where nature ends;
Vividly one wills the world to be.
Each swath of loveliness on love depends,
Restored each day to passion one can see.
Sing, then, of sweet desire turned to love,
And of the grace that does all lovers move,
Renewing in your song each day the vow
You never made more willingly than now.
