<h2>XI</h2>
<p>And therefore if to love can be desert,<br/>
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale<br/>
As these you see, and trembling knees that fail<br/>
To bear the burden of a heavy heart,—<br/>
This weary minstrel-life that once was girt<br/>
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail<br/>
To pipe now ’gainst the valley nightingale<br/>
A melancholy music,—why advert<br/>
To these things? O Belovëd, it is plain<br/>
I am not of thy worth nor for thy place!<br/>
And yet, because I love thee, I obtain<br/>
From that same love this vindicating grace<br/>
To live on still in love, and yet in vain,—<br/>
To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
