I dare not sing of love in little song,
For I know what I have to give is small;
I know it stretches little, lasts not long,
And for a tiny thing there’s not much call.
I’d sing of little else in such a form,
For I know that my love is of a piece
With all the rest of me; it does conform
To other parts of me, bears no release.
I’m not among the mighty, I well see,
For I know that my deeds earn little note,
And that, perhaps, is how it ought to be–
Unspoken words, at least, will stop no throat.
Yet still, I feel the call to sing in verse
On printed page, though I little rehearse.