I write, yet dread the ink should speak too plain,
Praying thou find’st the truth herein contained.
How oft I strive, aye, and most bitterly,
To give a name to this which stirs my breast,
Yet words, like shadows, fly when I draw near.

Time and again I have essayed to speak,
But the first breath doth fail, and phrasing halts
Though I, well-practiced in the poet’s art,
Can weave for others what I lose for thee.

If it please thee, I would fain be known,
To walk within the shadow of thy grace,
Yet only by thy leave, for I desire
No path but that which thy consent hath marked.

'Tis a sweet burden, strange and hard to bear,
To love the one I dare not look upon.

My tongue, once sovereign o’er a thousand songs,
Now trips and stammers like a frightened child.

Therefore, if thou canst read what stays unsaid,
If thou canst hear the cry within my hush,
Then know, ’tis thee for whom my silence burns