Classic Poem

What need for writing more do I pretend?
O love, scan not so close a lover's art.
True is it I have nothing to impart,
But thy dear hands will hold what I have penned.

I cannot come to thee, so what I send
Shall bear with it mine undivided heart,
The bliss, the hope, the rapture, and the smart,
And they have no beginning, have no end.

Henceforth from thee no more may I conceal
How thinking, longing, dreaming, willing — aye,
My heart doth turn thy kindred soul to greet;
Even as I stood and gazed with mute appeal.
Before thee once. What had I need to say?
For my whole being felt itself complete.