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.