Happy

I marvel at the things you do to me:
The way the least tilt of your lovely head
Can tell me what I ought to do instead
Of what I'm doing; the sweet way you see
A speck of cherry clinging forcibly
To my top lip, and wipe away the red;
The way you listen to the things I've said
And answer them - and always thoughtfully.
I wonder that you choose to do this for
Me, who cannot claim desert, but must
Confess, if I for all my faults am just,
That I for you should always do much more.
And then I cease to puzzle it, and know
Love does not ask permission where to grow.