Love: Forlorn, immaculate, impossible and imperceptible

The Brook

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
   I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
   To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
   Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
   And half a hundred bridges.... - Alfred Lord Tennyson

So is life. 

Forlorn, for till you attain, there is only sadness..
Immaculate, for I couldn't find anything purer..
Impossible: Didn't you see it from the beginning?
Imperceptible, for if it was, it wouldn't be as forlorn..


For you can love without being loved.. and that doesn't make it any dearer