Poezja

If I cannot utter that "I love thee",
Thinkst not 'tis for that my heart is cold,
What would the use of a love in words be,
When Love that's true cannot e'er be told?
 
Love that I cannot to her e'er say,
Love that my sorrowful heart doth host now,
Such a Love that I will ne'er betray,
Such a Love that she cannot e'er know.
 
Love that I cannot say and can't be heard,
Love, composed of "Thou dost not" but "I do";
Love that is more than merely a word,
Hard as rock, and this since ever I knew.
 
When looking at me laughing, others say:
"Can a man who is deep in love be so?"
To these I shall respond: I day by day,
Read "Love" as the story of my woe!
 
'Tis not easy for a man to smile,
While he knowth that his woe hath no ending,
When day by by he, himself doth beguile,
And this guile inwardly his heart rending.
 
How well said Byron in his song for love,
His sweet words what I list to say doth prove:
 
"My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe."