Though seen from so far afar, thou hast captured me. Dare I flee? Nay! That I might rush to your beauty! Succulent, sweet, dew-covered blossom, as you are the seat and nurturer of man’s loving passion, would that I could be afforded my fondest dream and undeserved privilege to be bound to thy troth. Howbeit, I bask in wave upon wave of the shadow of thy indwelt splendors? Let action be the voice, allow, and suffer me buried in thy lower eye. Such beauty, Such beauty! Shakespeare never knew me. Yea, he spoke for me noting that the charm of your music hath soothed savage breast. In Rostand’s fictionalized account of Cyrano, Savinien knew me not. How could he not though? Desire moved him to like purpose of passion. Such desire! Cover me that I might feel your shadow and light; thought and substance. Task, beg, cajole, summon, press...I will but do by your leave. Such desire!
As Presbyter John and I met in the even' and consorted as we were wont to do, over flagons of ale, he assured me that the passion of her heart would pierce the outer shell and gaze 'pon the countenance within. :-)