maybe. Shakespeare comes to mind: 'that which we call a rose. . . .'

At the time I wrote several poems; part of the last one:

Then is this lonely love quite useless?
Am I mistaken to think so deeply
Of one who knows me not at all?

That cannot be:

He is and I have seen the beauty
Of his being -
His radiance and sorrow.
In seeing, there is only love:
A vital glimpse of truth
Among the talking shadows.