XI
And therefore if to love can be desert,I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as paleAs these you see, and trembling knees that failTo bear the burden of a heavy heart,—This weary minstrel-life that once was girtTo climb Aornus, and can scarce availTo pipe now ’gainst the valley nightingaleA melancholy music,—why advertTo these things? O Belovëd, it is plainI am not of thy worth nor for thy place!And yet, because I love thee, I obtainFrom that same love this vindicating graceTo live on still in love, and yet in vain,—To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.