The Poetry Club was met, the question thrust,

Is this, or that, or what, a poem of love?"

And some were read, and hungrily discussed.

My chair scraped with a hard impatient shove.

"Fools!" and my mind leaped hotly to a shout.

All poetry is that." I looked around,

The talk ran on. The words had not come out -

My heart had cried, my lips made not a sound.

What did it matter? Let them carve, dissect,

Examine, pick it to the last clean bone,

And see if they knew them, or could detect

The symptoms - then then they'd want it proved and shown.

All poems made are poems of love, I thought,

Whether they rhyme of love or ships or dream,

Whether the man who made them knew or not

How words are more, and more, than what they seem.

Poems are made to speak aloud. that man

Who hears is poet, too, if he will bear

the honor of creation I began,

For love is what I give and what you share.