If jealousy be proof of love indeed I have one comfort in my bitter pang: At least my love is true love, if I hang Wide-eyed upon thy beauty, fain to feed. Let not thy soft soul other voices heed Since it was all thy music that I sang Let thy speech flow to me, since no heart rang Thus at the rumour of thine every deed. And yet I am not jealous; for they say That jealousy is mad and full of hate, Suspicious, wilful, tortured, quick to slay. But I in utter adoration lay All in thy sacred hands, and bless the fate That made me love ere I was cast away. |