Does he know the way I worship our love?

He loved me. He was a complex person with layers of percolating emotions, some of them spiritual, some tortured in a more secular way, and he burned for me. This complicated flame of being was mine.

Whenever I'm with him
Something inside
Starts to burning
And I'm filled with desire,
Could it be the devil in me?
Or is this the way love's supposed to be?

See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

He presses my hand and he says he loves me,
Which I find an admirable peculiarity.

Sing the rapturous love-song unto me! Burn to me perfumes! Wear to me jewels! Drink to me, for I love you! I love you!

"Viola?" he says.
And I turn to look at him -
And when I do, I can hear everything he's thinking.
Everything.
Clearer than before, clearer than seems possible -
And I'm not even sure I'm supposed to, but I look him in the eyes and I see it -
In the middle of everything he's feeling -
Even after we fought -
Even after I doubted him -
Even after I hurt him -
I see how much he loves me.

There shall he love when genial morn appears,
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears.

He had only to touch me to turn my tears into sighs and my anger to desire. How accomodating love is; it forgives everything.

He weeps! the falling drop puts out the sun; He sighs! the sigh earth's deep foundation shakes. If in His love so terrible, what then His wrath inflamed?

For, once he thrilled with high romance And tuned to love his eager voice. Like any cavalier of France He wooed the maiden of his choice. And now deep in his weary heart Are sacred flames that whitely burn. He has of Heaven's grace a part Who loves, who is beloved in turn.

Him I delight in accepts joy as joy;
He is richened by sorrow as a river by its bends

"Caleb," I say, "I love you."
His eyes gleam with tear as he says, "I love you, too, Beatrice."

Love hath so long possessed me for his own
And made his lordship so familiar.