WHEREIN HE MARVELS THAT HE IS NOT YET WEARY OF LIVING, THINKING, WRITING HER

Already I grow weary thinking how,
Unwearying, my thoughts upon thee dwell,
And how to life they cling as to their hell
When they might quit their sighing at one blow;
And how of that sweet face, that hair, that brow,
Those eyes the sun's pure golden citadel,
By day and night naming thy name I tell
Their virtues in my beads until they glow!
And how my feet, not tired, not broken, still
Following thy dear footsteps everywhere,
Mount uselessly a never-ending stair;
And whence the ink, the paper which I fill
With thee? If incompletely I declare thee,
Blame not the art but blame the love I bear thee.