I'd really rather you did not attempt
To woo me at this moment of my life;
To do so may draw nothing but contempt.
I'm tired you see and wish not for the strife.
Send me not your sonnets comparing me
To things and times of year. A flower I
Am not, nor am I like fire or sea.
You cannot see me through your love-curs'd eye.
My wondrous friend, companion through it all,
My confidant who knows all of my pain,
Do you not remember when we were small,
And we told secrets 'neath the stalks of grain?
My tired heart can only friendship give;
Do not mistake this, please, for lack of love.