O let us not make inquest of our love,

Of how we came to be, or whence, or why,

Nor make interrogation of the sky

That bound us by a dictate from above.

 

Each hand of ours befits the other’s glove,

And we, unmindful of these years that fly,

Let reasons rest where reasons tend to lie:

Our seasons turn without such care thereof.

 

For here, where we two cross, God holds us one,

Beyond our feeble lights to comprehend:

The truth of us surpasses our surmise,

Like everything that is: the stars that run,

 

The seas that sing, the life that has no end,

And all our suns that set, that sleep, that rise.