Sonnet Cxxviii: Poem by George Henry Boker

Grieve not the heart that loves thee!' In a ring
I read this posy. Would thy gracious hand
Might hold against thy heart that wise command,
As far more precious than the golden thing.
All I can ever say or ever sing,
Lies in the compass of that graven band,
Twines love and duty in a single strand,
And on an altar lays the offering.
I can but say I love thee, and implore
The grace that lightly to such words is thrown
From upright Heaven to mortals who adore.
We, only we, make loving lips to moan,
And loving brows to bend, and eyes to pour:
'Grieve not the heart that loves thee,' O my own!