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.