Sometimes the wild night is plain terrifying. There's no imagining a passion there, or a fierce old poem from some warrior heart. It's just sheer power storming through life. It's a hurricane, a diagnosis, an overturning of tables in the temple, a hag-house of bones, a sorrow with no response. And you are reminded, as you stand on your doorstep watching white fire, black wind, exactly what Majesty means. Beyond its mercy, its beauty, its sensual wonderful lure, it is absolute authority. And it will knock you down if you go out bare-faced in it, or even if you stand on your doorstep too long.
But still you stand there, as beset by wind as the trees and the earth, which can do nothing but wait until the storm is over and then shudder slowly back into their battered selves. You don't go out willingly to the raging open air - but you don't go in either, shutting your door. Because this is what's real. This stark wild. This life.
I think where we go wrong is mistaking love for peace and quiet.