And, I, faithful, do kneel before the balcony,
an odd Cyrano awaiting the appearance of his Roxanne.
As all in this new tale is reversed to the lore of old,
I do not call out, but wait on thee to speak.
When so blessed by thy sweet words, or blessed more still by thy sweet sight,
I begin my own adulations.
My words are as weak to the ears as poor Cyrano's were of strength.
I falter, I consider, I recast, then, blunder forth an effluent of mediocrity.
I am heard? Is it better than I am not? None the matter, I carry on.
Oh for sweet words more from thee,
I will, with joy, make a fool of me.