I wrote my love a poem but lied in every word
For though truth I spoke and fair truly there
T'were not the lyrics of the marrow, of bone
But sang of pretty things, of weather and dust.
Now truly bare, I command the willful muse to bend
To the gentle firm will of my simple lust, knowing
I must speak or speak truly no more.
She does not answer, can not perhaps and that is well
Enough. I require the language of me and must suffice.
Gods and Fates, Angels and Saints I didn't know, I didn't know!
I didn't know. No. My heart. I didn't know.
What more can metaphor of silk, the ambrosian echo
Of orchestral images mouthed by a million angelic youth
Surplus my anguish, and in song make plain?
No and no, the burden of truth is mine alone.
Alone with thee impossible love I dare the gods
Account! But silent and still, listening I do know
If truth be told, and gods need say no more.
With broken words and tear-shattered voice I speak
Alone, with thee. Will you hear?