XC

I wonder if these sonnets which I sing
To thee alone--our secret love's poor cheer,
By any chance will reach the common ear,
And feel the puncture of the critic's sting?
I vow, if I supposed the whispering,
Tender and low, with which I draw so near
To thy soft smiles, might in some coming year
Be cried about like any public thing;--
Made the gross jest of street and market-place,
Profaned and wronged by every bitter clown,
Whose wit is pretext for a fool's grimace;--
If thus I feared, I'd set my angry face
Against the chance, hurl lyre and chaplet down,
And of our love leave no betraying trace.