Sitting in Michael's Lap
Shall I confess these secrets unto thee,
These fancies that I hesitate to share?
Thine impishness a longing stirs in me,
Yet questions linger, urging me forbear.
Shall I confess that dreaming fingertips
Have lingered on the vision shaped as thee,
With cheeks that borrow blush from bashful lips
That whisper secrets gleaned from fantasy?
Shall I impart that oft, I have caressed
Thy letter, with an almost loving look?
That now thy words, like precious blooms, are pressed
Between the pages of my spirit's book?
Shall I admit that, in the hidden place
Where dreams awake to dance in mystic lands,
There hangs a careful portrait of your face,
Portrayed in tender hues by yearning hands?
Shall I reveal the confidence I keep
To thee, in hopes you walk a kindred way?
Mayhap my visage haunts thee in thy sleep?
Too many questions! Nay, I say thee, nay!
For though, in love, the heart is most alive,
As oft as not, its price in tears is paid –
A lonely heart, though cold, shall yet survive
And needn't fear the unrequited's blade.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange...
--William Shakespeare, from The Tempest