B. TELL ME THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE

O TELL ME THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE
Liebe, l’Amour, Amor, Amoris...
Some say that Love’s a little boy and some say it’s a bird, some say it makes the world go round and some say that’s absurd: but when I asked the man next door who looked as if he knew, his wife was very cross indeed and said it wouldn’t do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas or the ham in a temperance hotel, does its odour remind one of llamas or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is or soft as eiderdown fluff, is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house, it wasn’t ever there,
I’ve tried the Thames at Maidenhead and Brighton’s bracing air;
I don’t know what the blackbird sang or what the roses said, but it wasn’t in the chicken-run or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces, is it usually sick on a swing, does it spend all its time at the races or fiddling with pieces of string, has it views of its own about money, does it think Patriotism enough, are its stories vulgar or funny?

O tell me the truth about love.
Your feelings when you meet it, I am told you can’t forget. I’ve sought it since I was a child but haven’t found it yet; I’m getting on for thirty-five, and still I do not know what kind of creature it can be that bothers people so.
When it comes, will it come without warning just as I’m picking my nose, will it knock on my door in the morning or tread in the bus on my toes, will it come like a change in the weather, will its greeting be courteous or bluff, will it alter my life altogether?

O tell me the truth about love?

O, DIS-MOI, LA VÉRITÉ SUR L’AMOUR

Liebe, l’Amour, Amor, Amoris...

D’aucuns disent que l’amour est un petit garçon, d’autres disent que c’est un oiseau, d’aucuns disent qu’il fait tourner le monde, d’autres disent que c’est absurde, et quand je demandais au voisin, qui feignait de s’y entendre, sa femme