A constant distance is a dreadful thing
Frustrating at best, at worse a crime
Robbing the heart of its accustomed time
And forcing loving thoughts to take to wing.
Love should be intimate; therefore, to bring
A barrier between which love must climb
While not insuperable, nor rigged with lime
To catch at love, is still disheartening
And therefore villainous. It is enough
That love must falter into human words
Harsh, half-thought-out, untempered, rough
Unmusical, antithesis of birds
But to insist on distance too is vile
Though love can flourish still across the stile.
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