I had not thought: art thou that wayward she
To whom with heart and spirit I inclin'd?
Art thou the soul of all my poesy?
I knew thee not when first I spoke thy name:
I scant could know the path I chose to tread
Were all the incense to thy hallow'd fame
Burnt to thy god of errantry instead.
I knew thee not; I know thee, now, too well:
I cannot plumb the fathoms of my grief
In words: there are no words this tale to tell.
There is no physic here to bring relief.
And yet, for thee, and thee alone, I brook
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look.
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