If poetry comes not so naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. - Keats
My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning,
Disturbs night's dreamy calm... Pale at my bedside burning,
A taper wastes away... From out my heart there surge
Swift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge
And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing.
I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing,
Meet mine... I see your smile... You speak to me alone:
My friend, my dearest friend... I love ... I'm yours ...