I no longer fear the human heart;
its fragile structure has no weight,
lest it be held aloft by its bearer,
and bred with softer hands’ elate.
The venerable organ of human stay,
unfettered by life’s hardened plain;
it weeps in sorrow, yet sheds no tears,
it bears all wounds, yet feels no pain.
Were I a man of much sounder frame,
bare it with my hands to hold it still;
but none may cease its constant thrall,
and would I be a fool to want such skill.
I no longer shy from its wanton way;
let this heart bear such weight as it can,
that I may not be so much the wiser,
but perchance, I may be a better man.