by Anton Wills-Eve
Look not on me with doubting in your mind,
Or seek to fathom my passion, or ask its kind.
Nor ask the reason for your own heart’s song,
The answer is too far away, and far too long.
Be glad you feel for me as I know you do,
Being lost in me will twice suffice for you.
But loving, still wondering what you feel,
Is false joy for such love is never real.
If I make love, sensing you are in any doubt
My love is just for you, then nought will out.
Save lustful satisfaction, with no inner fires.
They only burn if I am all your heart desires.