Prelude

HOW could I love you more?

I would give up

Even that beauty I have loved too well

That I might love you better.

Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give—

I can but give you of my flesh and strength,

I can but give you these few passing days

And passionate words that, since our speech began,

All lovers whisper in all ladies’ ears.

I try to think of some one lovely gift

No lover yet in all the world has found;

I think: If the cold sombre gods

Were hot with love as I am

Could they not endow you with a star

And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?

Could they not give you all things that I lack?

You should have loved a god; I am but dust.

Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.