Rondeau
*My lover, if my poems should be*
lacking all art, do not leave me
oblivious. Instead, be blunt.
Lest I continue, please confront
me with the facts. Let them be free,*
thy private thoughts. Thy willow-tree
curtains pull back so that I see
your heart. I will no more affront
*My lover.*
My always wish is to please thee.
More than move heaven, or earth, or sea
I wish to move myself – to hunt
the selfish out – turn best to front
and give what makes thy life lovely,
*My lover. (If my poems should be