love and its time (carlos drummond de andrade)

Love is a privilege of the aged mature
Lying down in the straitest of beds,
Which turns into the largest and most grassy,
Stroking, in each pore, the body's heaven.

Is this, love: the unforeseen reward,
The buried and glowing prize,
Reading of the encoded lightning,
That, once decoded, there is nothing

Worth the while and the earthly price,
Saving the tiny clock's minute gold,
Throbbing through the dusk.

Love is what is learned on the verge,
After filing away the whole science
Inherited, told. Love begins old.