“Do you want me?” He asked;
“Yes,” she replied, “But I don’t need you.”
Want, the word of velleity
Means much less than we suppose
For they tell me love is free
Who would want it? No-one knows;
Some desire, of old called lust
Some may pine, may need; Some must
And so this lack, they must renew
Desire as though a sacred trust;
I hear no man in times of old
Speak as when he lacks the stuff
That that’s desire? Or so I’m told
Such can’t seem to lack enough;
Romance is history, belief is truth
Want is lack, sometimes a proof
Of sin or folly, but not of love–
And we call these men uncouth?
“How then can it be” you say
“That their will seems not to tire
Even friends from olden-day
Cause them pain as hot as fire?”
We who less can speak but grunt
Cannot conceive this awesome stunt:
Her, he wants but to desire
So her he then desires to want.
