A Picture and a Plea

Sometimes, your head a little downward bent,
I see you play at gossip with your thought,
Sitting apart, alone, as though you sought
To shun the world and live in banishment.

Then oft I would approach, in dear intent
To greet you — but my voice, straightway distraught
With panic fear, behind my lips is caught,
And silence leaves me standing shamed and shent.

Mine eyes do fear to meet the beams of thine,
My soul doth tremble neath those rays divine,
Nor tongue nor voice can to its function move.

Only my sighs, only my tear-stained face
Must do their office, speaking in their place,
And bear sufficing witness of my love.