The lover's plea

I beseech you, Shun me not!
For the love i harbour thee cannot be got
by trivial means or much self talk
and cannot be stoppered like champagne with cork.
For this tempest in me will overflow
and spill from my eyes if thou dost go
And so my eyes become the clouds, dense and grey
That cast a fog upon each day
which obscures my vision and steers me wrong
And the world seems big, a maddening throng.
With such small steps i cannot prevail
to escape this crowd and so i fail
to make small progress every day
and yearn to hear you say you'll stay.