I love you
not only for what you are,
but for what I am
when I am with you.

I love you,
not only for what
you have made of yourself,
but for what
you are making of me.

I love you,
for the part of me
that you bring out.
I love you,
for putting your hand
into my heaped-up heart
and passing over
all the foolish, weak things
that you can't help
dimly seeing there,
and for drawing out
into the light
all the beautiful belongings
that no one else had looked
quite far enough to find.

I love you,
because you
are helping me to make
of the lumber of my life
not a tavern
but a temple;
out of the works
of my every day
not a reproach,
but a song.
I love you,
because you have done
more than any creed
could have done
to make me good.
And more than any fate
could have done
to make me happy.

You have done it
without a touch,
without a sign.
You have done it
by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what
True Love means
after all.