Old wisdom tries to share a gentle thing or two to a newly-married couple: it’s of course still so much about love, except that when familiar tenderness is forgotten due to quotidian cares, and love turns into something hotter than the sun, it predictably burns…
We cannot hold it—it’s too hot—we’ll burn.
Ninety-three million miles away, as it is, from us
We’re safe—not counting skin cancer. Or sunburn.
If it’s anything closer, yours will be the last marriage.
So is love, though you could, with it, burn. Some while.
Without the cancerous inclinations of the sun.
Don’t hold it closely in your hands—it sears
Like nothing else does: when what it’s used to just
Pulls off away without reason or rhyme.
If you’re not regular, like the sun
Love looks for a quarrel—lovers beware:
Its foolish pitch of fever no ice cools…
Don’t hold it too tightly. Nor too loosely either.
Maintain the light of considerate reason in your life.
When it dims, beware: — when the savage needs
Of everyday pierce your functions with very little time allowed
Love plays the irked sun, and sweats you out close by
As your candidates of hell—all you’re not used to–will
Take the upper hand: such as too many babies crying
For too many requirements that, when you forget love,
You’d think the days of your life went to the devil
And all the old attachments to tender manners
Boil, b-o-i-l… hot as hell—hotter than love or sun.