Candidly, I’d thought that love, in poetry,

Was loving just the thing you made;

And thence my heart was suffocated.

But the muses chose you just to undeceive me.

Ceaselessly disputing, organizing their sides,

Like a hive of bees,

The nine muses earless,

Who are always able to intervene in time,

Made you just the way for me to write you more;

For those Greek goddesses,

To play their game of chess,

Want me now on this and now the other shore.

Jean Cocteau