Beneath this beauty when my spirit swayeth
And with the praise of it my soul is stirred,
Love on my lips a wary finger layeth
And bindeth in my heart the eager word!
My heart, that for love's sake these long years holdeth
One dear desire to win all ways of speech,
Whose secret, love himself, I dreamed, unfoldeth—
O, is it silence, Love, that thou wouldst teach?
I have desired to suffer thy sweet burning
And prayed thy fiercest blow should on me fall;
I have grown scarred and wise in bitter learning,
But not to love I never learned at all.
Now to thy mischief, Love, add not this choice—
To know not love, or never use love's voice.