A hackneyed burden, to a hackneyed air,—
“I love thee only,—thou art wondrous fair!”
Alas! the poets have worn the theme threadbare!
Can I not find some words less tame and old,
To paint thy form and face of perfect mould,
Thy dewy lips, thy hair of brown and gold?
Can I not sing in somewhat fresher strain
The love I lavish and receive again,—
The thrilling joy, so like to thrilling pain?
Can I not, by some metaphor divine,
Describe the life I quaff like nectared wine
In being thine, and knowing thou art mine?
Ah, no! this halting verse can naught express;
No English words can half the truth confess,
That have not all been rhymed to weariness!
So let me cease my scribbling for to-day,
And maiden, turn thy lovely face this way,—
Words will not do, but haply kisses may!