Heaven grant us patience with a man in love.

Listen, O sons and daughters of time, to the words of Rudyard Kipling, who, with the keen eye of a poet and the tempered wit of a sage, once declared: “Heaven grant us patience with a man in love.” At first, these words may seem but jest, a wry smile cast upon the folly of youth. Yet beneath them lies a truth as old as the dawn: for love is a fire that consumes reason, a storm that shakes the calmest heart, and a force that bends even the proudest spirit. And those who stand near to the one enflamed by it must call upon heaven itself for the virtue of patience.

The origin of Kipling’s words is found in his wisdom of human frailty. For he knew that the man in love is no longer master of himself. He is like a ship seized by a sudden gale, its sails full, its rudder forgotten. He speaks with haste, he acts with rashness, he dreams beyond measure, and often stumbles where once he walked with dignity. The world around him, unkind to folly, grows weary of his raptures. Thus does Kipling pray not for the man himself, but for those who must endure his tempest: “Heaven grant us patience.”

The ancients also bore witness to this madness of love. Recall the tale of Paris, prince of Troy, who, seized by passion for Helen, defied duty, honor, and kingdom alike. His heart’s fire brought forth a war of ten long years, filling the plains of Ilium with blood. To endure such folly required patience not only from gods, but from mortals who suffered beneath the shadow of his desire. And yet, this is the way of men in love: they see not the ruin around them, but only the flame before their eyes.

But not all such stories end in destruction. Consider the tale of Dante Alighieri, whose devotion to Beatrice became the guiding light of his soul. Though he scarcely knew her, though death took her young, his love became a ladder stretching from earth to heaven, leading him to compose the Divine Comedy, a work that still illumines minds after centuries. To endure his fervor surely required patience from all who heard him speak endlessly of her. Yet in this case, the world reaped a harvest from his passion. Here too Kipling’s words echo: we must bear with the man in love, for though he is lost to reason, he may give birth to wonders beyond imagining.

What then is the meaning of Kipling’s prayer? It is a reminder that love, though noble and divine, often blinds as much as it enlightens. The one possessed by it becomes unpredictable, unreasonable, and, at times, unbearable. But rather than scorning him, we must endure him. For patience is the shield that prevents irritation from turning into cruelty, and mercy is the bridge that allows passion to ripen into wisdom. The man in love is not to be despised, but guided, for he is in the grip of one of life’s oldest and holiest forces.

The lesson, O listener, is clear: when you encounter one whose heart has been seized by love, do not mock, do not despise, but grant him your forbearance. For today it may be his madness, but tomorrow it may be yours. Remember that from such passions arise both the ruins of Troy and the poetry of Dante. With patience, we guard the balance between folly and greatness.

Therefore, let your actions be thus: when a friend speaks endlessly of his beloved, listen with kindness, even if his words are foolish. When his judgment falters, counsel gently, not harshly. When he burns with passion, pray for the strength to endure his fire without letting it scorch your own peace. For in showing patience, you honor not only him, but the power of love itself—the power that, though it unsettles, also uplifts, and in its wildness, teaches the heart what it means to be fully alive.