Here, I shake to know,
The dreariness in thou.
Why are there those who doubt?
Why are there those who say against?
Are we not to be?
Is there love at all between us?
I question it, for doubt has strung
My torment up, for the world to see
The darkness of us.
My dearest one,
You have a face like milk,
And a nose, molded upon a face
Like the wax from a candle.
And when you weep,
I see the candle flame melting it down.
Your face holds a fire,
That strikes my heart to bleed.
Have I held you up in my strength?
My withered strength,
My withered pride,
There is nothing more than you for me,
Not the kingdoms to which God has promised,
Nor the gold to which a king has ever promised,
There is only the comfort
To which we have promised ourselves,
By the hands that caress the bleeding wounds.
There should be no more mockery.
There should be none of what says rueful words,
When upon our shoulders,
When upon ourselves, entranced.
There should be none of that impending doubt
In formulation to our years in marriage,
In formulation to our years in each’s arms.
Like a scribe with a wishful note,
To translate into tears,
Tears of wax and tears of sweat,
As my toil is now your blood.