Classic Poem

Your countenance is written in my soul,
and whatever I may wish to write of you;
you yourself wrote it; I read it
in such privacy that I hide even from you.

In this condition I am and always will remain;
for though I cannot contain all that I see in you,
whatever I do not comprehend of your great worth, I believe,
since my faith takes it for granted.

I was born only to love you;
my soul has cut you to its measure;
I want you as a garment for my soul.

Whatever I own I confess I owe to you;
for you I was born, for you I have life,
for you I must die and for you I am dying.