“What are you doing?” he said,
They said: “We are making love.”
“Is it made in the heart or the head,
And what do you make it of?”
“That is hard for us to say;
We make it up as we go
And it vanishes away
As soon as it’s made, you know.”
“What instruments go to make
Such fleeting and fragile stuff?”
“Two hearts that rejoice and ache
For each other are quite enough.”
“Is it easy to make?” “O yes,
Though there’s no sure rule for it;
Each time we must gamble, and guess
How this time the pieces fit.”
“But what when their joiners cease,
And the makers can make no more?”
“Then it leaves the spirit at peace,
But the heart, the heart sore.”
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