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.