My tongue is tied in knots choosing between
The modes of sweet expression I possess;
And in pursuit of further gentleness,
I lick my lips, as if, from them, to glean
Some seed of inspiration. Yet I clean
Those poor chapped lips with no hope of success;
No muse takes pity on my plight to bless
Me with a poem for my only queen.
No, I am out of matter, and of art,
And left to sing my love in wordless tune;
Worse, I cannot find a song to croon
Even without words. My loving heart
Is jealous of expression, and it hoards
My love from words or phrases, notes or chords.
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