'The Measure' by Jon Silkin

We all cry for love;But what if we get it? To holdIn sex, and affection,The adored human creatureMaking of both a unitIn love, and procreateWhich is the end of love,Drops one small image intoA widening universe.Man’s love disintegratesIn the space void of him;And gradually he comesTo know that he is small.What is man’s love? To holdInto despair the loving creature,And propagate an imageIs the utmost. Beyond his tidesThe chronic invalidsOf broken universesWait in derision on man.Yet he was formed to love.Earth cries, sun cries,With the stark, hapless GodsPhenomenal of matterIn space, to this end.But when man reaches thisAnd grows into himself,He dwindles to his size.His spaces melt into himHe occupies no area.Love then is the space of destruction,And but for the harmoniesOf despair, he is nothing.Weep, then, to be a stoneOr a cold animalIn servitude to somethingOther than consciousnessWhich love brings; since that shapeOr measure, in awarenessThrough love of what we are,Is that measure of space death is.