Classic Poem

My Lady mine, I send
These sighs in joy to thee
Though, loving till the end,
There were no hope for me
That I should speak my love;
And I have loved indeed,
Though, having fearful heed,
It was not spoken of.

Thou art so high and great
That whom I love I fear;
Which thing to circumstate
I have no messenger:
Wherefore to Love I pray,
On whom each lover cries,
That these my tears and sighs
Find unto thee a way.

Well have I wished, when I
At heart with sighs have ach'd,
That there were in each sigh
Spirit and intellect,
The which, where thou dost sit,
Should kneel and sue for aid,
Since I am thus afraid
And have no strength for it.

Thou, lady, killest me,
Yet keepest me in pain,
For thou must surely see
How, fearing, I am fain.
Ah! why not send me still
Some solace, small and slight,
So that I should not quite
Despair of thy good will?

Thy grace, all else above,
Even now while I implore,
Enamoreth my love
To love thee still the more.
Yet scarce should I know well--
A greater love to gain,
Even if a greater pain,
Lady, were possible.

Joy did that day relax
My grief's continual stress,
When I essayed in wax
Thy beauty's life-likeness.
Ah! much more beautiful
Than golden-haired Yseult,--
Who mak'st all men exult,
Who bring'st all women dule.

And certes without blame
Thy love might fall to me,
Though it should chance my name
Were never heard of thee
Yea, for thy love, in fine,
Lentino gave me birth,
Who am not nothing worth
If worthy to be thine.