Love’s Inquest

 

Shall we two hearts make inquest of our love,

Of how we came to be, or whence, or why,

Or make interrogation of the sky

That binds us by a dictate from above?

 

Each hand of ours befits the other’s glove,

And we, unmindful of these years that fly,

Let reason rest where reasons tend to lie:

Our seasons turn without such care thereof.

 

For here, where we two cross, God holds us one,

Beyond our feeble lights to comprehend:

The truth of us surpasses our surmise,

Like everything that is: the stars that run,

 

The singing seas, the life that has no end,

And all our suns that set, that sleep, that rise.