Love Jealous

Time was methought 'twould be enough for love
To live by Her, to worship and admire:
Poor silly moth! that all too soon must prove
The kindling of Love's ire,
And play with fire,
And drawing nearer, nearer, so be burn'd, —
Unknowing that I yearn 'd.

I look'd as One might on a painting look,
Or on a statue fair but marble-cold;
I sought not, I admired: Love may not brook
A love needs not be told.
Now would I fold
The picture, the warm statue, to my heart:
Now hath Desire his part.

Once seem'd it much but listening to Her,
Hearing her voice, whose music was so clear
It was all pleasure; now I feel the stir
Of pain while She is near,
Lest others hear.
She must be mine, all mine, my very own:
So Love at last is known.