Self-Revealed

Your reverence humbles me; I cannot bear To see the glow of worship in your eyes. Though I am proud that you should find me fair, My heart, accepting homage, knows it lies. And when I feel you tremble if my hair But touch your cheek—when your hand, suppliant, tries To clasp my own as one who makes a prayer, My lips know how to smile, but my heart cries: O love, I weary of this vain pretense, This striving to be all that you believe— The same clay formed us both, and reverence Is not my due—but gladly to receive Your fellowship, and with desire intense Search out that Good to which we both may cleave.