Flush-faced, his broad chest full of might
In such mellow growth so slow and sure
Abides he like the yellow moon at night
Hung sidling by in silence evermore

A flame that struggles ‘gainst the cutting gale
Then hides inside so that its force conserves
Or rather like the wax that waits to melt
For light that burns until its last exhale

Oh Love of mine, who glows and warms
So softly that he almost can’t be felt.