Were a poem to be sincere,
Not mere plaything for the ear;
Were the words that he’d impart
Wing like free birds from his heart,
Then the poet must put first
Truest hunger, realest thirst,
For the one who is his One
As the sun is its own sun.

Sounds it simple to declare
You’re my all, my every where;
Seems it easy so to say
You’re my night-time and my day;
But desire, if it’s strong,
It must rise to highest song,
Never falter, insincere,
As mere plaything for the ear.

So I tell you my true love,
Over you there’s naught above,
Past your eyes no clearer skies,
O’er your wisdom, none more wise;
By you beauty none more fair,
None like you are anywhere!

And I, from in me, deep,
I climb, however steep,
Upward, toward your light
With all my singing might;
Artful, yes, yet true,
With steps that stride for you.

I run with words sincere;
I race, you are so near!
I spring, I leap, I climb,
With rhyme on rhyme on rhyme,
My song a truth so true
Its one word only—you!