The weight of the world
            is love.
Under the burden
            of solitude,
under the burden
            of dissatisfaction

            the weight,
the weight we carry
            is love.

Who can deny?
            In dreams
it touches
            the body,
in thought
            constructs
a miracle,
            in imagination
anguishes
            till born
in human—

looks out of the heart
            burning with purity-
for the burden of life
            is love,
but we carry the weight
            wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
            at last,
must rest in the arms
            of love.

No rest
            without love,
no sleep
            without dreams
of love—
            be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
            or machines,
the final wish
            is love
—cannot be bitter,
            cannot deny,
cannot withhold
            if denied:

the weight is too heavy

            —must give
for no return
            as thought
is given
            in solitude
in all the excellence
            of its excess.

The warm bodies
            shine together
in the darkness,
            the hand moves
to the center
            of the flesh,
the skin trembles
            in happiness
and the soul comes
            joyful to the eye—

yes, yes,
            that's what
I wanted,
            I always wanted,
I always wanted,
            to return
to the body
            where I was born.

“Song” by Allen Ginsberg from Collected Poems 1947-1980. © Harper Collins.