Oh, when will l be sure you love me true?
And when will you be sure that l love you?
Philosophers say we can’t be sure of anything.
Are we to echo them, and their loss sing?
Are they absolutely sure that they are right?
But no, they say we can’t be sure of ANYthing,
Which means, of course, we CAN be sure.
And what’s more sure than love like ours?
What’s more pure than we who are so pure?
It’s here, it’s ours, steady as the stars,
And we’d be fools to throw it all away
Because philosophers don’t know what they say.
We are lovers, above philosophers, yes.
Only lovers find true happiness.
Let philosophers go sadly their own way.
They have the dark of night, we have the light of day.