Persuasion.

    Still must your hands withhold your loveliness?
        Is your soul jealous of your body still?
    The fair white limbs beneath the clouding dress
        Are such hard forms as you alone could fill
    With life and sweetness.    Such a harmony
        Is yours as music and the thought expressed
    By the musician: have no rivalry
        Between your soul and the shape in which it's drest.
    Kisses or words, both sensual, which shall be
        The burning symbol of the love we bear?
    My art is words, yours song, but still must we
        Be mute and songless, seeing how love is fair.
    Both our known arts being useless, we must turn
    To love himself and his old practice learn.