Sonnet VII
'I do not attempt to deny, that I think very highly of him — that I greatly esteem, that I like him.'
Is love a fancy, or a feeling?
No.
It is immortal as
immaculate Truth,
'Tis not a blossom
shed as soon as youth,
Drops from the stem of life—
for it will grow,
In barren regions,
where no waters flow,
Nor rays of promise cheats
the pensive gloom.
A darkling fire,
faint hovering o'er a tomb,
That but itself and
darkness nought doth show,
It is my love's being
yet it cannot die,
Nor will it change,
though all be changed beside;
Though fairest beauty
be no longer fair,
Though vows be false,
and faith itself deny,
Though sharp enjoyment
be a suicide,
And hope a spectre
in a ruin bare.
— Hartley Coleridge
On the Arc of Light
There is a Shakespeare sonnet that has been staying with me—one that traces a life through the path of the sun. At dawn, the light is adored. Faces turn toward it instinctively. At noon, it is powerful and necessary. And by evening, quietly and without ceremony, it is no longer watched. The same sun. The same light. Only the angle has changed.
What moves me is not the sadness of that ending, but its truth. We are very good at loving what feels immediate and radiant. We praise intensity easily. We linger less with what lasts. And yet it is often the longer light—the steadier warmth—that carries us through the day.
Sense and Sensibility understands this better than most stories. It does not dismiss passion, nor does it scold restraint. It simply asks what love looks like when feeling must share space with time, responsibility, and care for others. It asks whether devotion can remain alive without constant proof, and whether something deeply felt can survive without possession.
I find myself thinking about that often now. About how love changes when it cannot rush forward, when it must move with patience and intention. About how some connections do not announce themselves loudly, but settle into us all the same—quietly shaping who we are, how we see, how we endure.
There is nothing small about wanting to be seen fully. Wanting warmth, closeness, recognition—these are not indulgences; they are human needs. But there is also a tenderness in learning how to hold affection without taking it, how to remain present without demanding more than what can be given.
The sun does not stop shining because fewer eyes follow it at evening. Its work continues, steady and faithful. And those who understand that—who know how to love not only the rise, but the long arc—learn to recognize beauty even when it is gentle, even when it does not call attention to itself.
Some forms of love are not meant to be consumed or claimed. Some exist to steady us, to witness us honestly, to offer warmth without burning anything down. They ask for care, not conquest. And in their restraint, they reveal a depth that intensity alone cannot reach.
Perhaps that is what matters most:
to stand in another’s light without trying to own it—
to feel the warmth, even as the day turns—
and to know that what is real does not vanish simply because it is quiet.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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