To most people love conjures up the vision of happiness, but to me, love holds the pains of life, with happiness merely the thread that links them together.
Love to me is the terror of being parted;
The suffering of my beloved one's pain.
Leave to me is the anguish of death,
Not of being deprived of life
But of never seeing him again.
Love to me is boosting his ego,
Making him bigger than all men I know;
Of showing my gratitude,
Not meagerly, not slow
But with touch And voicing words
That strike the answering chords of love
And bring to his eyes the tender glow.
Love to me is fear of the moments
That I might waste in discord, or bitterness;
The fear that I might survive to morn their loss
And remember that those moments stretched to an hour
And that hour to that day,
And that I had thrown some part of my fleeting life away.
My love is a rare thing,
But do not envy it to me,
For who would want such agony.
Taken from Catherine Cookson - Let Me Make Myself Plain A Personal Anthology pg.46-47 Corgi Books 1989