Bedside

"Thee I have given all my senses' wrath;
Forgive my ranting wisdom, my pitiful mistrust;
Thou art that for which I buried mankind's lonesome past;
In thee discovered a fountain's spring one hath."
Thine voice sootheth thine betrayal, be but true
Once however told I thee in mighty bearance:
A lover's hatred is not much inclined to do
Marbled faces as mine or thine cause penance.
"I have wronged thine every utterance, in every way!"
One indeed is my request, mistake me further, I ask!
Thou know'st not how, before thine love was ere conveyed
How dull still life appeared, ever like a task!
"Then why at this moment, in thine worst of hours,
Dost thou turn me in a man so weak in powers?"
Could I, wouldeth thou still be hereby bedside?
Every hold of thine hand maketh my illness dry.
"I've wronged thee ever since I spoke thee then:
Have I reason to believe thee cured, at last?
For my words would haunt the mightiest of men -
Yet thou say'st it doth thee well, trust then I must."
I never was a heart only in a spirit's well,
My mind would search and burn even in water,
Over an ocean can but a stormy snow dispel;
Thine face hath hints of frozen reigning laughter
And I see thou dost thine best for my welfare.
"Then why art thou distant in thine ways before me?
Might I know an answer, perhaps I can bear?"
Do leave me, I entreat thine kind, speak not;
Help me see thine light, for darkness I have sought
In thee I found our truth, and I might as well abstain;
Perhaps thou and I are anything but sane.