Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou would’st as soon go kindle fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words:
The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns.
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with the enamel’d stones;
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage: