On Seeing Stephen Fry as Oscar Wilde
May. 29th, 2004 12:43 pm(For a certain redhead in Virginia)
There is love in my bed, but my love does not live there.
If love is a rose, well, roses want sunlight
And air, and food.
Earth, and a wall to climb.
Frost, and the season's turning.
Love grows in darkness, but it grows aslant --
Twisting and bending as no love bends
In proper soil.
Too much wood; too many thorns.
Love grows in a hothouse, straight and perfect --
Rootless and resistless.
Too much fussing, hasty bloomings, all or nothing;
The beauty takes your breath away
The beauty takes your breath.
I planted a love in my garden
I planted a love on a hill
I planted a love by the roadside
They are wild now; they grow as they will.
There is love in my bed, but my love does not live there.
If love is a rose, well, roses want sunlight
And air, and food.
Earth, and a wall to climb.
Frost, and the season's turning.
Love grows in darkness, but it grows aslant --
Twisting and bending as no love bends
In proper soil.
Too much wood; too many thorns.
Love grows in a hothouse, straight and perfect --
Rootless and resistless.
Too much fussing, hasty bloomings, all or nothing;
The beauty takes your breath away
The beauty takes your breath.
I planted a love in my garden
I planted a love on a hill
I planted a love by the roadside
They are wild now; they grow as they will.