What is love? A Shakespearean answer.

For of love, that most hallowed flame,
which burns yet not consumes,
which illuminates yet not blinds,

I discourse. 
Love, boasting not, nor vaunting its virtues,
but in quiet confidence proves its worth.

Consider the rose,
blooming in silent majesty,
seeking naught but to be admired. 

So true love seeks not acclaim,
but flourishes in the gentle zephyr's caress. 

It is the salve for souls weary,
the solace for hearts wounded,
the anchor for spirits tempest-tossed.

Love is the mariner's compass,
guiding through treacherous brine to the haven's safety. 

It is the lodestar leading through umbrage
to the hearth's warmth. 

In love, we find courage for the morrow,
and strength to endure the night.

Let it be known, love is not emotion,
fleeting as dawn's dew.
Nay, it is our essence, our existence's core. 

It is the force moving planets,
binding stars within the firmament's vast expanse.

Love is the poet's muse,
the artist's vision,
the minstrel's tune.
It is the sculptor's chisel,
the weaver's loom,
the smith's anvil.

In every creation, in every art,
love is present,
guiding hands, inspiring minds,
filling souls with divine light.

Thus, cherish this gift,
this jewel in life's crown. 
Hold it aloft,
a beacon of hope in shadowed realms. 

For in love, we find unity, in love, peace,
and in love, transcendence of this our mortal coil.