Sonnet, in hopes of being the last

I’ve learned I love as poets love – to dream –
And in that dreaming lose all hope to act.
For acting is all prose – or baser seems;
Where song is all imagined, love is fact.
Did Petrarch more than dream of Laura’s kisses?
Or Dante, Beatrice chase and wed?
Would Muses, of the wandering Ulysses,
Let Homer spy his flawless lover’s bed?
For this is in the balance of our art,
That thought should capture us; and in that snare
Retain us, kept from luck and love apart,
Held back from rocky paths where lovers dare.
So never fear your love is false or true:
Fear only that you love as poets do.

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