Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile, inconsequential things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of her fates
Fighting in somber pride,
Never spoke of this thing.
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.