What passion’s crescendo exalts mine heart

To tell star from star, to see light apart?

It oft be love and oft be hate, but truth

Prevails on yonder’s glare forseen of soul;

Be it the truth of what I feel in youth

For thee, mine own belov’d, who holds me whole

When life’s whips lash to remind of its sooth.

Be it uncouth to hold my lover’s bod this morn?

The broken grips of night hath faded yonder,

And light arrives in splendor tune so born

To bless the unsure with surety’s ponder

That all, e’en darkness, dies to daylight’s scorn.

O, I love thee to the might of my being,

With thorns ‘round mine head and nails on my freeing.


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