Stubbing your Toe in Heaven

The feeling of love is a scuttled heart
Salt-water rushing in
Whoever knew that a galleon
Could hold such gold within?

The feeling of love is new-cut grass
Hope, in the pit of the stomach
Sweeter than a summer's day
O'er patchwork Devon.

The feeling's a symphony called Delight
A concerto, a bagatelle
An enchanting sonata, a music box
A tiny bell.

The quality of the open seas
A trillion sparkling diamonds
Sketches by Da-vinci
(In Florence you may find them)
Or unknown masters
In nameless places
On butterflies' wings
Has your spirit ever tilted
At such painted things?

An avalanche of pink clematises
A stately procession of princesses' kisses
A dove on your bird-table, cooing at dawn
Only to you, through an open window.

The feeling of love - tugs
Like gravity
The weight of a feather, tickling the soul
Giggling the insides
Filling the holes.

The feeling of love is fresh-cut grass
New, in the pit of the stomach
These are the feelings of loving on earth
But of stubbing your toe in heaven.