CXVI

I shall not flatter that gross mass of sin,
Wicked myself, with this delusive thought,
That my dear lady's spotless heart is caught
In my plain toils, as in a fowler's gin.
I am her mirror; and she sees therein
A full reflection of her person, wrought
Within my mind, and thus is simply brought
To prize a grace which from herself I win.
I have no merit, save what she bestows;
No claim upon her, save the right I take
From her bestowal, that, by giving, grows.
I cannot tell you why the snowdrops wake,
The violet opens, or the pansy blows,
If love exists not for its own sweet sake.