You ask, child, when you know when one is the one
As if it were calculus or game of chance;
May as well try to grade brightness of the sun,
Timbre of the horn, the lightness of the dance.
I would gladly offer formula or sum
Or another device of science or art,
But the weighty texts and astral charts are mum
In analysis of matters of the heart.
Let me say this, then; let love speak up itself,
In ways that author and alchemist forgot
For its advent will lift you beyond yourself
Without explanation of what it has wrought.
For rule and theory we happily forego
When love steals in and softly says hello.