Were we not then, before we were
Made up in the one mind,
As if tied to uneasy beds, to stir
And argue with ourselves? As heretics,
Or disbelievers in religion find
A hundred reasons, each of a new kind,
Against the thing at which love sticks;
And all their subtly-shifting tricks
Were summed up if they said ‘It is not true’:
So half-aware of some adultery,
Even before we came
To be contracted one to the other, we
Half-loved, and thought love lame.
I in my madness found a way to be
Chimerical yet catastrophic; she
Was lost in an unending dream of me.
For I know now how she
Was, long before I knew
Her: as she recreates all things for me,
We make up all between us, and the skies
Are living in us, all we say or do
Marries them to the world, and through us two
Like needles in a haystack, and our eyes,
Such reasons and realities
Come singing like a fire, the truth comes true.
We are like a pair of dice that the soul throws
In this two-handed game—
Rattles the little box where the luck grows;
And it is all the same
Whether a six by six or six by four
Lies, or a five by two, or three, or more:
We add that to this, this to that, and score.