My love, I cannot write to you a word,
For any word requires a treatise true,
Each chapter, then, a jury for review,
Whose jurors must be scrupulously heard--

Each letter would be faulty in its sound,
And seem to need another or one less,
A clause to justify would just digress,
And never would the proper print be found--

To write to you a play descends to plot,
A choir, perchance, would make an honest show,
Yet shows are sharp when high and flat when low,
So base a stage cannot portray my thought.

In love, I must allow mere words to err,
And credit them for carrying us there.