In other words, there is the love that will moderate the expressions and inroads of its affection, out of respect for what it knows to be the boundaries of its own separateness, with regard to that of its beloved, so that the beloved, while not neglected or ignored, can dwell in the privacy that, native to them, is necessary for their growth, and is even divinely wrought; and then there is the love that, while often well-intended, and maybe even the beginning of something vital, is not really love (or not yet love), insofar as it extends itself, with reckless enthusiasm, and a desire to be assured of its own utility, beyond its domain, until it invades the space where the spirit of the beloved (silent even to the beloved themself) would sit in contemplation of itself.