To sweet nothings and pretty dalliance,

Doting days of indulgent indolence,

And rooms with scintillating ambiance:

To old love and its steadfast loveliness.

Who else is as improvident as thee—

No other passion is as supercilious

And ardently haughty towards the others;

None has grand objects so superfluous,

Nor prances in stricken minds so gracefully,

Nor runs amok therein so freely,

As if more thyne than themselves’ are lovers.

Impudence discloses a rare wisdom,

And of this truth thee are the best teacher:

It is written by acts in thy kingdom

And proclaimed daily by a courtier

Who hath a sweet disorder in their dress

And that unwonted wild civility;

They bewitch without beguiling

With their mellifluous, uncouth address,

Which seems sans form or rationality,

But whose form is just that deficiency—

Is there a more desirable lacking?

To this thee owe thy most prized ascendance:

The way in which the fleet glow of thy light

Lends irrationality resplendence

And reveals an otherwise hidden delight.

For, what else could be wiser and more true

Than that which is known with our whole being

And is a fulguration to dark eyes

That ne’er look past the bound psychê’s purview

And suffer sensibility’s chaining.

We need thee to do our unfettering

And to add sweetness and weight to our sighs.

Josh Rubin