Dream

And if we never meet again upon this human earth,
what good will from these scribblings spring, I ask you, what's their worth?
Will I forget the penning them and you forget you've read,
and we two never think of them until we both are dead?

I ask me why I write these lines, and why I bare to you
the deeper conflicts of my mind, and strive to keep them true?
And if you too should wonder why, well thank the gods above!
Although I can't quite fathom it, it is a kind of love.

However I'd not love you, how much rather I'd be free,
oh how dearly do I wish you'd never heard of me!
For in the furrows of my brain you left a seed to sprout,
and how I ransack through my mind, and wish to tear it out!

Do not think I think you meant it, no I do not accuse;
if it's reproach you're searching for, well I must disabuse.
Although I cannot say precise just how you stole my heart,
there's a something in your being, that you need no subtle art.

But the autumn seed you planted now has burst in verdant spring,
and as it grows to flower here I cannot help but sing.
If any beauty's glimmer bless these verses you should know
that they are but your sun's pale moon, their light a borrowed glow.

I am a weakling spirit, and can live in only dreams;
my mind is far too fragile for reality, it seems.
And though the pain of living burns so sweetly I could burst,
the hopeless ache of loving you is far the sweetest worst.

I cannot even say that I would like my love returned,
for something in my nature only loves when it is spurned.
I think that's why my tongue grows loose, and why I say too much:
above the real I far prefer the pure, imagined touch.

By nature I'd have been a monk, but now that God is dead,
I turn my eyes upon this world, and worship you instead.
Don't show me too much favor, for apostate I would turn,
and like some Grand Inquisitor you'd have to watch me burn.

I hope I don't annoy you with this structure I've erected,
and that it gives some pleasure that it's you that I've selected.
But should my scribbling bother you there's yet no cause to fear:
I'm sure I'll have some other hopeless love this time next year.

I said I'd show you conflict, what I hide beneath the mat;
I'm quite embarrassed to have writ a thing so true as that!
And if you too should wonder why, well thank the gods above!
Although I'd rid myself of it, it is a kind of love.