Sonnet XXII

My dear beautiful mademoiselle,

It's strange, to write so much for you.

So many of these lines, as I look back,

So many are for you, because of you, about you.

I needn't tell you why; they explain themselves,

But you should know that I mean them,

Though I don't know what you'd think.

And this poem, like the others, is for you.

Yet I don't think you'll ever see it here;

In fact, I don't think you'll see any of these poems.

Why pen them, then, if not to show you, you ask?

Because my fingertips would shower ink if I stopped,

And because I love the bittersweetness of it all.

With sincerest love, your caped monsieur