Classic Poem

Some men proclaim their love and let it go
In pitiful wild words that all may see,
How they have sighed, or bended low the knee.
God's will be done; I was not fashioned so;
I know what utter love, is and I know
What this our life together holds for me,
But keep it sacred, as not meant to be
Flung gossip-ward, to the four winds that blow.

I marvel at those singers who aspire
To lay their souls bare to the rabble throng;
For you my lips have trembled into song
And you shall judge if I lack aught of fire,
If that my heart-beats have not rung like chimes
Within the echoing transept of these rhymes.