What have I more to give thee, who have given thee all my heart?— Only a faltering verse, and a bungling rhymester's art— ls it worthy thine acceptation? Is it worthy the light of thine eyes? Is it worthy thy hand should touch it, this pitiful verse that dies? Let thy soul's perfect music interpret its harmonies— The passion that is in a line, and whence that passion had rise, For my heart is laid bare to thy heart, and my soul in thy hand's hold lies.
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