Poem by Paul Eluard

We two, holding hands,
Believe we are at home everywhere—
Beneath the gentle tree, beneath the dark sky,
Under every roof in intimacy,
On the empty street in full sunlight,
In the clouded eyes of the crowd,
Beside the wise and the foolish,
Among children and grown-ups.
Love is not made of mysteries—
We ourselves are the proof.
All lovers believe
They are in their home.