LXXIV
WHILE I gaze in thy dancing eyes, I seem
Unable to imagine that thou art
So cruel as deep sorrow to impart
To one who holds thee in love’s high esteem.
Who, from thy face, so like a child’s, could dream
That such sweet loveliness did often start
In men love’s worship, only to depart,
And leave them sinking in life’s treach’rous stream?
Yet such thou art, in character, my love,
Thou to whom I must dedicate my life,
Praying to God that He may still give thee
Some understanding of His realm above,
And make thee willing to become my wife,
Remaining in complete accord with me.