To thou, but when I see thee standing there;
My feelings, would I wish thee, hear me shout;
But when the fortunes of my heart despair,
May I thee touch, when can I not reach out?

So many times with thee my tongue were still,
And lay so quietly within its doubt;
Yet words would circle ’round my soul until
Thee sonnets write, when can I not reach out.

Yet words may leave my soul and heart as well;
And leave my hands as mute, my pen without;
How, soul and thought and heart, may I thee tell?
I play for thee when can I not reach out.

For, all my days I worship thee throughout;
In many ways, do I to thee reach out.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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