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And so, my love, I cannot help but love her

Although my life and love belong to you.

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The fairy poet takes a sheet

Of moonbeam, silver white,

His ink is dew from daisies sweet,

His pen a point of light.

My love, I know is fairer far

Than his, (though she is fair,)

And we should dwell where fairies are

For I could praise her there.

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King Midas took delight

In golden vessels bright,

And yellow bars of ore he found most fair;

But he had never seen

The dancing, glancing sheen

Of sunlight on your dark and fragrant hair.

His wealth could buy him wine

Made from the purple vine

And sweet as all the blossom-breathing South;

But he could never slake

His thirst, nor ease the ache

Of his hot lips at your love-pliant mouth.

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Slender your hands and soft and white

As petals of moon-kissed roses;

Yet the grasp of your fingers slight

My passionate heart encloses.

Innocent eyes like delicate spheres

That are born when day is dying;