Love is not true: mathematicians know 
Truth, that's alive in heaven, and in the mind — 
Out of our bodies; you will never find 
Love strict as number 1, and enduring so. 
It is not free: alone the grave's narrower 
Than the little space in which this passion moves, 
With a door that opens inward: he who loves 
Measures his paces like a prisoner. 

They who give it large names are liars, or 
They are fools. More softly, you and I, 
Slow to assert what we can never prove, 
Wonder what algebraist, what dictator 
Can teach us much of truth or tyranny. 
Look at me. Do not speak. But this is love.