Shakespeare's 'blessedness

Of being little'

Wraps me gently

In his arms.

His subtle touch

My heart fulfills-

Like Wordsworth's ease

With daffodils.

Yet, like poor Keats

I sometimes fear,

That I may cease to be,

For in days of solitude

I seek only me.

Although his love

Does offer seas,

And endless stars to see

When I have failed

To love myself,

Is it true love I see?

I deeply fear

It cannot be,

No partner-

For unloved me.