If I be thine sweet Romeo,
then thou be my fair Juliet,
who is like the sun to the flower,
against whose radiance I have no power.
Thou the object of my idolatry,
endure as a flawless work of artistry,
Yeah, my Mariea who walks the earth
is to me a hundred angels worth.
No Juliet who has walked upon man's stage,
could be to me more beauteous than thou who is of her age.
Indeed, I could not write upon a page,
more than a intimation of thine beauty,
so above my words are thee that they would seem mere acridity.
I love thee so that without thee I suffer, truly,
yet thine touch is locked away from me so cruelly,
by those who would but idly stand by,
save for the span of years betwixt us -- still, I try.
Oh, wherefore is it thus?
Why hath God done this to us?