The Conditions of Love

Love is not a sweet and mellow thing Like wings of the butterfly passing the door It is a dive into the bitter stream, The touch of wounds.

Let not the thorn become a rose, Nor the river become a sound; Love endures the gnaw of earth and stone, The aching wind in the hollow.

Let thus thy love hold its own dear secret, That only the broken heart can feel The deep waters beneath the sun And the fire of the moon.

• Judith Wright