She said, "It is true, love; how foolish my sighs! It is true that the hours pass enchantingly so; You are here, and I gaze unreproved on your eyes, Where I trace all your thoughts as they come and they go. "To see you is bliss; bliss to me incomplete; Don't fancy I murmur at all at my lot; I watch that nought irksome invades your retreat, For I know what you love, dear, and what you do not. "In a corner I nestle most wondrously small, For you are my lion, and I am your dove; I pick up your pens should they happen to fall, And the soft rustling sound of your papers I love. "No doubt I possess you; I see you no doubt, Still, thought is a wine with which dreamers get drunk; You should dream but of me; I have reason to pout When each eve in old books your whole being is sunk. "There's a shade in my loving heart's inmost recess, When you ne'er raise your head, never speak, never smile, And I never can see you completely, unless You look at me sometimes yourself for a while!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLOOD HORSE by BRYAN WALLER PROCTER SAGE COUNSEL by ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH TELLING THE BEES (A COLONIAL CUSTOM) by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE THE CREMATION OF SAM MCGEE by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE OF HIS CONVERSION by WILLIAM ALABASTER PORTRAIT SONNETS: 1 by HENRY BELLAMANN |