I search catalogues of love poetry,

Searching for the thoughts that echo my own.

Were that I could find such a replacement

For the weak scratch my awkward hand writes down.

But as yet my quest is ever thwarted,

As visions of blond, fair youths cloud the list

And laments of "love's labours lost" cry out

In an tone altogether opposite

Of the sentiments coursing through my blood,

Of the passion that cries out wordlessly,

Refusing to be transcribed in plain words:

The only words I have left inside

My feebled mind when thinking thoughts of him

Leave me in love a handicapped poet.