Love feeds, like Intellect, his lamp with truth; <br />In the clear truths he finds its flame is measured. <br />And is not flesh, there, verity? In sooth! <br />So Love not by this fantasy is pleasured <br />That slurs the fact in flesh. Its atmosphere, <br />Too rare and nebulous, no fusing shows; <br />Its manna too ambrosial is and sheer: <br />Love craves that union, earthly hunger knows. <br />O sage is Love—he seeks the living line, <br />The miracles in breathing flesh explores, <br />The riches in the depth of sense, divine, <br />The veiled things only eternal longing pours <br />Light unobscured on—yes, his doubting done, <br />With flesh the imminent two converts to one.<br /><br />William Baylebridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/xxxii-from-love-redeemed/
