The book I'm reading here is by one of my favourite poets. One of my favourite poems from the book is this: **Wild,Wild** This is what love is:
the dry rose bush the gardener, in his pruning, missed
suddenly bursts into bloom.
A madness of delight; an obsession.
A holy gift, certainly,
But often, alas, improbable. Why couldnât Romeo have settled for someone else?
Why couldnât Tristan and Isolde have refused
the shining cup
which would have left peaceful the whole kingdom? Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests of our lives. Over and over Faust, standing in the garden, doesnât know
anything thatâs going to happen, he only sees the face of Marguerite, which is irresistible. And wild, wild sings the bird. *- Mary Oliver, from her book Devotions*
