As I give to you my love
Myself it bears to me.
A me, it seems, that you will have
With all its frailty.

Yet better as I know my ways
It's your frail things I Love.
The nearly broken bits of you
That reach me from above.

Did you intend I break you
By doing things always wrong
That, frail, we meet together
In your wounded song?

I see the need of friendship
To live things always new,
More beautiful than can be lived
By a single I or you.

Is this then the mystery
Throbbing in the air
Of patient heaven's discontent
And tragic Earth's despair?