![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOeDFJE4UkbjO4zemevbKEkVv6zL72V5Tc0VB0Zx4lzlFjOh3vt9jI5f4XpeVLLh1VODKTwBjP9oOTY8Z7eU8Wy3zE3zYMY5PZg9KK86Ab_f0y4b0ngHtof9tHIkgSgzmhN_p4jDlyf_FD/s200/cryinggirl.jpg)
My love, I am more often cruel than witty;
Yet thou holdest none above me.
When I gaze upon the passing city,
Nothing half so stirreth up my pity
As that thou art wrong to love me.
A swirl of yens and yearnings of a welter
Press me, drive to strive and prove me:
Prove for thee in storm a ready shelter.
What to say, when in my stride I falter,
But that thou art wrong to love me?
Amid my humors’ bedlam thou art warden.
Ere before thy knees I shrove me,
Not thy countenance, but resolve didst harden:
Thou shouldst give unbidden pardon!
Therefore I am right to love thee.
No comments:
Post a Comment