In truth, how worthless have my words become,
When I have so long pledged myself to thee?
Is’t possible to dip a pen struck dumb
By the absence of such a Muse as thee?
What shall I write when my prose is cheapened,
With patronizing rhymes dripping in ink,
When with denial my sadness has deepened,
And pain I endure when of you I think?
I must now doubt my course when next I find
A companion heart to beat next to mine;
The perfect match of body and of mind,
A soul content to paint outside the lines.
How may I again profess love as sweet,
When I have writ such ardent words for thee?