It also calls to mind some of the great poetry of the ages.
I always thought Matthew Arnold had the best all round take on love in that exquisite last stanza of Dover Beach. We imagine the lovers are happily at some cute Victorian B&B near the English Channel, when the speaker (choose your gender) starts to hear the waves bring “the eternal note of sadness in.”
After more depressing thoughts, the speaker turns and utters the timeless supplication:
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
[actually . . . ]
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.
It’s just you and me, babe.
As lines, so love's oblique, may well
Themselves in every angle greet:
But ours, so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more,
When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore.
“Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.”