XXXI: Perfect Love

She must know pain, but never done by me.

And God be blest if she, but by her mind,

decipher what this means; and yet be free

to know, to love, but be, to pain, quite blind.

Her touch would then be sweeter than a song,

her gaze, the softest swathe I'd ever know.

Her word, the gentlest kiss--so kind, so long--

and eye to eye, my tears to her could flow.

For us, …