Lord Byron, I am not.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
No, the metaphor is too poor -
the sun is hot, unpleasent, blinding,
the day too long, the insects buzz
no summer day are you, my love

"How do I love thee?"
Oh how I have tried to count the ways
Myriad and many as the grains of sand on the shore
yet no words can frame the width and bredth of love
and I must rely on childhood's faith
that you know what I cannot
find words to say, my love

And I would make for you that bed of roses
and give to you those thousand posies
yet I know I cannot win you
with coral clasps and amber studs
or any other such baubles of love
I am no shepherd and I have no flock
No gifts will win you, my love

And in Life's noisiest hour,
There you are always
The heart's Self-solace and soliloquy
your memory a constant
the only constant
in the ripples of the stream
that is you, in too few words, my love

And lo, though My beloved is mine, and I am his,
am I the thorns that suround the lily,
am I the wood around the apple tree
and though the winter is past, the rain is over and gone
I am left here still searching for words