From an unfinished play
A STONE FOR MARCUS
My heart doth love
but with meek sadness
that for its own self even
cannot light a courageous candle;
for though temptations light is strong
fear be lightless dark
and will yet prevail, for fear it is.
If you would take me not
without my beckoning
I'll be left in loneliness
un-treasured through a life time
for speechless I be
at the sight of thee
Ah! You creature
of loves purest beckoning
taunt ye me with innocent but tempting loveliness,
that smothers not the flame,
its rapture lights
within my eager soul.
Praise be!
I fear to make it known to thee
Ah sweet surgeon of my sorrow wounds
please me now and heal my heart
for with loves pains 'tis smitten,
and you my love,
my love, 'tis you who smites.
'Tis not tasteless,
nor bitter, this thing
if it a thing; it is!, but then is tasteless,
for things have description,
love has none
for love is indescribable!