Sonnet XXII

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Sonnet XXII

But give me leave to love in silence that which I cannot possess— and give me such inspired defiance of the urges at my breast— and give me strength to never touch my lips to hers, my soul to her soul— give me heart and hale to weather every storm that may unfold: But tell me how to live without my hand in hers, its honest form— and tell me how to wake each morn if not to wake within her arms— and tell me how I am to carry on, and how I ought to act and speak and be, around her, now, and ever: tell me, and I'll on my way as still and quiet as the passing day.