Poetry

I am not an early riser. Generally, if I wake early, it's because something has disturbed my sleep. That was the case this morning, when I woke too early, from a very sensual dream. I found myself remembering the phrase, "For I at most accept your love, regretting that is all . . . ." I found the poem after I awoke. Here it is.

I majored in Elizabethan and metaphysical poetry in my graduate studies. Funny that this one should come rumbling in my brain today. But it is a lovely poem. I commend it to you.

No One So Much As You
by Edward Thomas

No one so much as you
Loves this my clay,
Or would lament as you
Its dying day.

You know me through and through
Though I have not told,
And though with what you know
You are not bold.

None ever was so fair
As I thought you:
Not a word can I bear
Spoken against you.

All that I ever did
For you seemed coarse
Compared with what I hid
Nor put in force.

My eyes scarce dare meet you
Lest they should prove
I but respond to you
And do not love.

We look and understand,
We cannot speak
Except in trifles and
Words the most weak.

For I at most accept
Your love, regretting
That is all: I have kept
Only a fretting

That I could not return
All that you gave
And could not ever burn
With the love you have,

Till sometimes it did seem
Better it were
Never to see you more
Than linger here

With only gratitude
Instead of love -
A pine in solitude
Cradling a dove.

Have you ever been in the poet's position? Have you been in the position of the one who was merely loved with gratitude?

Discuss.