As Ibn Hazm (rahimullah) so eloquently wrote in Tawq al-Hamamah (The Ring of the Dove):
The passions most men boast them of
Are like a desert's noontide haze:
I love thee with a constant love
Unwithering through all my days.
This fondness I profess for thee
Is pure, and in my heart I bear
True love's inscription plain to see,
And all its tale is written there.
Had any passion, thine beside,
At any time my soul possessed,
I would have torn my worthless hide
And plucked that alien from my breast.
There is no other prize I seek:
Thy love is my desire sincere:
Only upon this theme I speak
To capture thy complacent ear.
This if I win, the earth's expanse,
And all mankind, are but as dust,
Yea, the wide world's inhabitants
Are flies that crawl upon its crust.
This statement is confirmed by the fact that Love, as we know, is of various kinds. The noblest sort, of Love is that which exists between persons who love each other in God either because of an identical zeal for the righteous work upon which they are engaged, or as the result of a harmony in sectarian belief and principles, or by virtue of a common possession of some noble knowledge. Next to this is the love, which springs from kinship; then the love of familiarity and the sharing of identical aims; the love of comradeship and acquaintance; the love, which is rooted in a benevolent regard for one's fellow; the love that results from coveting the loved one's worldly elevation; the love that is based upon a shared secret which both must conceal; love for the sake of getting enjoyment and satisfying desire; and passionate love, that has no other cause but that union of souls to which we have referred above.
All these varieties of Love come to an end when their causes disappear, and increase or diminish with them; they are intensified according to the degree of their proximity, and grow languid as their causes draw further and further away. The only exception. is the Love of true passion, which has the mastery of the soul: this is the love, which passes not away save with death. You will find a man far advanced in years, who swears that he has forgotten love entirely; yet when you remind him of it, he calls that love back to mind, and is rejoiced; he is filled with youthful desire; his old emotion returns to him; his yearning is mightily stirred. In none of the other sorts of love does anything like this happen: that mental preoccupation, that derangement of the reason, that melancholia, that transformation of settled temperaments, and alteration of natural dispositions, that moodiness, that sighing, and all the other, symptoms of profound agitation which accompany assionate love.
All this proves that true Love is a spiritual approbation, a fusion of souls. It may be objected, that if Love were as I have described, it would be exactly equal in both the parties concerned, since the two parts would be partners in the act of union and the share of each would be the same. To this I reply, that the objection is indeed well-founded; but the soul of the man who loves not one who loves him is beset on all sides by various accidents which occlude, and veils that encompass it about, those earthy temperaments which now overlay it, so that his soul does not sense that part which was united with it before it came to occupy its present lodging-place. Had his soul been liberated from these restrictions, the two would have been equal in their experience of union and love. As for the lover, his soul is indeed free and aware of where that other is that shared with it in ancient proximity; his soul is ever seeking for the other, striving after it, searching it out, yearning to encounter it again, drawing it to itself if might be as a magnet draws the iron.
And elsewhere in his book, he writes:
True love is not a flower
That springeth in an hour;
Its flint will not strike fire
At casual desire.
Love is an infant rare
Begotten, slow to bear;
Its lime must mingle long
Before its base is strong.
And then not soon will it
Be undermined, and split;
Firm will its structure stand,
Its fabric still expand.
This truth is readily
Confirmed, because we see
That things too quickly grown
Are swiftly overthrown.
Mine is a stubborn soil
To plough with arduous toil,
Intractible indeed
To tiller and to seed.
But once the roots begin
To strike and thrive therein,
Come bounteous rain, come drought,
The lusty stem will sprout.
mg: Darn:skeleton: The threadst... ... Rash... ... IS AN administrator! *gotta run* :hiding:
