Expression

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!