I’m far too shy to tell you that I love you.
You’re a star far from my plain earth.
I gaze and see no woman who’s above you:
To me you are the cynosure of worth.
Yet with all your beauty you’re a person
Like me in need of sympathy and love.
Your thoughts of me would not, I dare hope, worsen
If I in some way tried your heart to move.
There’s pleasure, surely, drawn from the reflection
That someone, somewhere, worships your sweet face,
Thinks you are the summit of perfection,
Wants nothing more of life than your embrace.
The danger is you’ll think it couldn’t be;
So I suggest you see yourself through me.

About the Author:
Nicholas Gordon