by Joseph Charles MacKenzie
Shall we, in vain, make inquest of our love,
Of how we came to be, or whence, or why,
Examine and interrogate the sky
That bound us by a dictate from above?
Each hand of ours befits the other’s glove,
And we, unmindful of these years that fly,
Let reasons rest where reasons tend to lie:
Our seasons turn without such care thereof.
For here, where we two cross, God holds us one,
Beyond our feeble lights to comprehend:
The truth of us surpasses our surmise,
Like all that is, this world, the stars that run,
The seas that sing, the life that has no end,
And all our suns that set, that sleep, that rise.
Shall we, in vain, make inquest of our love,
Of how we came to be, or whence, or why,
Examine and interrogate the sky
That bound us by a dictate from above?
Each hand of ours befits the other’s glove,
And we, unmindful of these years that fly,
Let reasons rest where reasons tend to lie:
Our seasons turn without such care thereof.
For here, where we two cross, God holds us one,
Beyond our feeble lights to comprehend:
The truth of us surpasses our surmise,
Like all that is, this world, the stars that run,
The seas that sing, the life that has no end,
And all our suns that set, that sleep, that rise.