At thirteen, I think it was, I was reading love poetry. At seventeen, love-lorn often, I was writing it – very badly, full of inconsolable sighs and lamentation, but at least I was trying. And all my life since I have made a special point of looking for books of love poetry and collecting them.
At eighty-five the search is not over and the best love poems please me as much as when I was young, though now it must be said in a more contemplative way.
I remember at a dance seeing two young people obviously newly and ecstatically enraptured with each other perform for each other with utmost grace. This poem by C.K. Williams describes them.
