XIX
My sweetheart, come, sit close to me,
Allow me to embrace Thee;
The Lord gave Thee an angel’s soul
From heaven, just to grace Thee.
I feel that I should speak to Thee
And make confessions often,
But my words stay locked in my mouth
And dead as in a coffin.
And often what I’d like to say
Appears unutterable,
For, though the soul is filled with it,
The tongue to speak’s unable.
But as I wind my arm ’round Thee
And my soul in Thine enters,
I feel as though Thou knowest all
What on my tongue then centres.