Love is that thing with fur (Vixen's Den)

There was a man with bottle-green eyes

Who taught to all the terms of his love:

That to love him was to love perfectly,

That to love perfectly was to enjoy

An endless lasting hunger,

And to hunger without end-

Which meant never to be having,

And never to be had.

In me he saw the mistake of flesh,

That I was ripe to know the sins

Of all the closeness of having,

Being without thinking.

It offended his esthetic sense.

Poets may sing of perfect love,

And crave an icy muse whose touch would burn,

But I burn to touch.

I scorn all perfect love,

And would not bear that equal pain.

Perhaps so few things are perfect,

But it seems to me a crippling thing

To cage a passion that will never fly

Or cry out loud and hear no echo-

Perfect is perfectly alone.

I suppose I'm not a muse, or even

A lovely thing, and so the right of love-

The rite of love, I ask,

To both have and to keep.