Sonnet VII

I’ve but my words and feeblest of wit
To entice thine eyes into mine ere long
And yet dumb upon the page my words sit
Thine ears hear not the trueness of my song
The minute beauty of it’s lost in tongues
Where thy tongue struggles yet to make the sounds
Of thy beauty and thy soul have I sung
As I had thee beside me on the ground
And yet I could not make thee understand
Or nay, perchance thy heart it did misgive
When with my word I did not give my hand
As if double dealing in me did live
Thou hast now someone with no art for rhyme
Perhaps he’ll sing thee all my songs in time