Encyclopedic

There is not time, although there ought to be,
For all the things I have to say to you
Of trust, and comfort, and of loving too;
Of everything at once you mean to me.
The hours passing by so rapidly
Never inquire if I want them to;
No, no, they go, and far too soon are through,
Whirling me away from ecstacy.
I love to be with you; your very touch
Is comfort and delight distilled together,
And though it might be lighter than a feather,
You ought to know it stirs me very much.
Yet there is so much more, and still no time;
Read me and from that look expand this rhyme.