TO ONE WITH HIS SONNETS <br />This is the book. For evil and for good, <br />What my life was in it is written plain. <br />These are no dreams, but things of flesh and blood, <br />The past that lived and shall not live again. <br />This is the book. I dare not bid you read. <br />Too much of my poor soul you would unlock. <br />Your own soul, if it tender were, might bleed. <br />I could not bear that you should only mock. <br />My life lies here. And yet in vain, dear heart, <br />The tale is told. One page it yearns to see, <br />One play where one best actor should find part. <br />But that, alas for love! shall never be. <br />Yet, if a sign you seek between these lines, <br />One hidden lies for you, a sign of signs.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-love-sonnets-of-proteus-part-iv-vita-nova-cxiii/
