"I love you / or I do not live / at all."

Posted by Theophilus on FB. The entire poem is beautiful but some lines themselves alone make the heart ache.

The Ivy Crown
William Carlos Williams

      The whole process is a lie,
                  unless,
                          crowned by excess,
      it break forcefully,
                  one way or another,
                              from its confinement--
      or find a deeper well.
                  Antony and Cleopatra
                              were right;
      they have shown
                  the way.  I love you
                              or I do not live
      at all.
      Daffodil time
                  is past.  This is
                              summer, summer!
      the heart says,
                  and not even the full of it.
                              No doubts
      are permitted--
                  Though they will come
      and may
      before our time
                  overwhelm us.
                              We are only mortal
      but being mortal
                  can defy our fate.
                              We may
      by an outside chance
                  even win!  We do not
                                  look to see
      jonquils and violets
                  come again
                              but there are,
      still,
                  the roses!
      Romance has no part in it.
                  The business of love is
                              cruelty which
      by our wills,
                  we transform
                              to live together.
      It has its seasons,
                  for and against,
                              whatever the heart
      fumbles in the dark
                  to assert
                              toward the end of May.
      Just as the nature of briars
                  is to tear flesh,
                              I have proceeded
      through them.
                  Keep the briars out,
      they say.
                  You cannot live
                              and keep free of
      briars.
      Children pick flowers
                  Let them.
                              Though having them
      in hand
                  they have no further use of them
                              but leave them crumpled
      at the curb's edge.
      At our age the imagination
                  across the sorry facts
                              lifts us
      to make roses
                  stand before thorns.
                              Sure
      love is cruel
                  and selfish
                              and totally obtuse--
      At least, blinded by the light,
                  young love is.
                              But we are older,
      I to love
                  and you to be loved,
                              we have,
      no matter how,
                  by our wills survived
                              to keep
      the jeweled prize
                  always
                              at our fingertips.
      We will it so
                  and so it is
                              past all accident.