I will not make you immortal with my verse,
nor beg a copy of your fair frame.
I have no rhymes which hope to seduce,
only quips and riddles of little use.
Of hopes and longings, I have a bountiful view,
but none could reach so far as to obtain you.
For obtain, I find, is so cheap a word.
To see you every day can hardly be my meaning—
nay, for us to know and know what each and the other
has seen and heard,
to laugh on a foggy morning’s first beams
and hear what the sun’s rays sing.
For, I cannot wish to obtain.
No, your smiles, sighs, and entwined hands will be my gain.
I wish to set you free,
not bind you in schemes of poetic immortality.
But all this is merely lonely desire.
For poems are far things from kisses,
and my words are not enough
to slip into your soul.
So it is–in hopes and longing–I remain.