Song's Insufficiency
I cannot tell thee why I love thee so,
Or how I love thee. Can the black night tell
The star that lights its heart wherein is hell
Why past all passion it adores the glow
That shoots its golden sweet rays to and fro
Across its murky depths unfathomable?
Can the dark water in the hollow well,
Star-holding, praise the star that stoops so low?—
The night is silent, and the dark deep disk
Of water in the well is silent too.
Nor is there much that even Song can do:
All words are open to the endless risk
That she who hears the words may fail to hear
The actual true heart sighing at her ear.
Or how I love thee. Can the black night tell
The star that lights its heart wherein is hell
Why past all passion it adores the glow
That shoots its golden sweet rays to and fro
Across its murky depths unfathomable?
Can the dark water in the hollow well,
Star-holding, praise the star that stoops so low?—
The night is silent, and the dark deep disk
Of water in the well is silent too.
Nor is there much that even Song can do:
All words are open to the endless risk
That she who hears the words may fail to hear
The actual true heart sighing at her ear.
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