Wherefore is there not enough pity in her smile to kiss me?

What other reason can there possibly be?
Will love of her disarm me?
Will I once again in iron shackles be free?
Heart finds not a nut of comfort here, not a grain,
For out of grace the body still remains.
Interminable is love's delay. It comes and goes
As if the thorny rose
Knows not its aim.

What, save pity, can lead a girl my way?
What, save pity, will carry my solitary tray?
It is not in the eye or the mouth or the ear
That love or poetry is made. It is not in soul
Or mind or earth or snow. It is in the cold weather
Of our inner being that we envision the loved one,
Our ideal tormentor come from afar to burn with acid
Our joys and desires.

Only- it is not so. Not for me, not
For words that lack meaning or purpose. Poetry is in the
fragments,
Love is in the harmony of holy torment, of sacrifice for the
sake of
Sacrifice, of pain for the sake of pain.
No longer will my golden Satan
Charm me with small gifts of inattention. No longer will a
prosaic
Touch restore Shattered Shires of ego.
Ours is not to question why.
Ours is but to do and die.

Wherefore aim I for the pity of a girl's smile, for the pity
of a girl's
Caress? For in the pity there is salvation,
And in the touch-divine intervention.