XIII

When I should be asleep to mine own voice

In telling thee how much thy love's my dream,

I find me listening to myself, the noise

Of my words othered in my hearing them.

Yet wonder not: this is the poet's soul.

I could not tell thee well of how I love,

Loved I not less by knowing it, were all

My self my love and no thought love to prove.

What consciousness makes more by consciousness,

It makes less, for it makes it less itself.

My sense of love could not my love rich-dress

Did it not for it spend love's own love-pelf.

Poet's love's this (as in these words I prove thee):

I love my love for thee more than I love thee.