Trip

There is too much of joy in me to tell;
I cannot speak except to mumble bliss.
For where excess of happiness must dwell,
There words are useless, and as sign of this
They halt before they come. What could I say
To make expression of my surfeit here?
Were there an easy method or a way,
Would you believe as easily, my dear,
The depth of my emotion? No, no, you
Would hear the easy tripping of my tongue
And say this ease has little work to do,
And the emotion it would speak is young,
Light, airy, nothing deep, intense;
Therefore this difficulty is come hence.