Anxiety's Sonnet III

Her voice, a whisper’s rub, a fairest touch,
Cavorts betwixt my ears and vacant heart,
To chafe with words a teeming, dauntless clutch,
As if converting fears, myself, to art:
Mine eyes which lack the brooding shade of love,
Do blush and bound when she’s my passer-by,
It blazes like the potter’s kiln to prove,
Her unsure love does grant me marble eyes.
My lips, unloved, which miss a moistened care,
Secedes from tongue and brain when she is near,
Aye, love’s the linguist of the feared and fair,
And she, the scholar, teaches lips that fear . . .
My heart’s not chafed, her words do not affect
A heart that breaks when art becomes regret.