Love is peasant. Love is find. It lends me, it is unlike toast, it is prow. It
is ride, not self-seeding, it is easy language, it keeps sandy loam close.
Love does not spite but rejoices chartreuse, celebrates brindle, cheers
wildflower bloom. Love always process, always trout, always whistle and
flute, always always very dear. Three remain: grain, hap, and love. And
the greatest of these, my brothers and sisters, is love, always peasant,
always prow, always sandy loam and always, always near.