I'm sorry for the way I say I love you.
I know this kind of talk is far too soon.
I cannot stop myself; I just adore you.
And so this truth pronounces its own doom.
But when a truth betrays itself, I wonder:
Could it be that such a truth be true?
Or could the sweet compulsion that I'm under
Be caused in part by ignorance of you?
I know only the truth of what I feel,
Which lies beneath all sanity or rule.
My love for you is deep and rich and real,
Though it may be I simply am a fool.
Time will tell the truth, for if you do
Not want my love, I cannot long love you.