That lack in me that is the lack of you
Remains as yet a wound that fails to be
Attended by its perpetrator, who,
For lack of motive, finds no crime to see.
Had you been conscious of your unknown part,
Would you have salved the hurt of unmeant pain,
Dear thief and only owner of my heart,
Which hopes from you sweet solace to obtain?
Yet I myself would be as guilty, too,
Should I attempt to force my suit on you,
Whose felony is being unaware
Of what was no concern to someone free
To be enclosed in love's embrace elsewhere,
Evading trial for bringing trial to me.
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