Love in its great power is not duty, obedience, task, or usefulness - it is excess, overflow; a spilling out of burning hot joyous desire.
Give me that God; how I want you!
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love, put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
S. Teasdale
Love is bold and love will risk things. It will risk failure. It will risk the pain of others. Love is passion, love is what I used to think it was. Love is not a tired thing, it has not been used too much. It is a tempest, a brilliant lightning cloud.
It is peace and harmony and stillness and order. But it is also fire and fight and tears and dirt. I want the scratches and the mud of Love on my hands, on my face.
He is Love.
(I dreamed once of the field where I was flying. I flew with cardboard and feather wings, but I also fell, when I started to think about how I was making myself fly.)
I want freedom and passion and pursuit, and I want to soar because I have been caught by love. He is my wind and my flight. I want to get lost.
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