Sonnet 17

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you simply, without problems or pride:

I love you in this way

because I don’t know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I nor you,

so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,

so intimate that when I fall asleep

it is your eyes that close.

----- Pablo Neruda

(props to E for refreshing my memory of this, from Patch Adams.. and elsewhere in life.)