Church walls cannot contain alone the light your bright eyes give,
Through painted glass designs softly breaking in a rustle;
If there be unpenned beauty which in your spirit alone could live;
Then let my rhymes trifle in your fire, lain inside your life-muscle.
It is not my thoughts that speak of love in love's most complex disguise,
If by speaking of love in flowered tongues, I try to hide you in reason.
Suppose, some copper bells and organ pipes were to sing your name in sighs,
Then star dusted pathways would bitterly collapse beyond silent mental cohesion.
If I could, then I would write the pews, and ink a seat beside you,
In wood, I would carve some numberings to reserve a random space.
Yet inside this box I have to burn the things and phrases still left as presently true,
Like how I could never see myself near your each and every standing place.
But if God were to permit my dreams to change my love into some physical shape,
Then you’ll find yourself fitting in my own melody, you being all lifetimes late.