The poem
Each lover has some theory of his own About the difference between the ache Of being with his love, and being alone:
Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone That really stirs the senses, when awake, Appears a simulacrum of his own.
Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown; He cannot join his image in the lake So long as he assumes he is alone.
The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone, Are always up to mischief, though, and take The universe for granted as their own.
The elderly, like Proust, are always prone To think of love as a subjective fake; The more they love, the more they feel alone.
Whatever view we hold, it must be shown Why every lover has a wish to make Some kind of otherness his own: Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone.