Let me not, ever, to the marriage in Cana Of Galilee admit the slightest sentiment Of doubt about the astonishing and sustaining manna Of chance and choice to throw a shadow's element Of disbelief in truth -- Love is not love Nor is the love of love its truth in consciousness If it can be made hesitant by any crow or dove or seeming angel or demon from above or from below Or made more than it is knows itself to be by the authority of any ministry of love. O no -- it is the choice of chances and the chancing of all choice -- the wine which was the water may be sickening, unsatisfying or sour A new barbiturate drawn from the fattest flower That prospers green on Lethe's shore. For every hour Denies or once again affirms the vow and the ultimate tower Of aspiration which made Ulysses toil so far away from home And then, for years, strive against every wanton desire, sea and fire, to return across the. ever-threatening seas A journey forever far beyond all the vivid eloquence of every poet and all poetry.