Of what use, Love?

Of what use are hands untouching? Yet,
Ready with reverent fingers they long,
To hold the outline of a face, and with
Gentlest touch trace the lines there drawn,
Join its story of joy and sorrow
And write a name on its tomorrow.

Of what use are eyes unseeing? Which,
Beholding not the image of desire,
Instead through a shadowed view envision
That vessel which holds the means of fire.
The lessons of a heart engulfed they learn-
The cause of its flame, and its call to burn.

Of what use are these things to Love? That
Fitfully tosses dreams and walks the floor,
In anguish calls its beloved's name,
In hope waits for a hand upon the door.
Refusing the emptiness of its bed,
Seeks now only a place to lay its head.


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