No Other Love


No other love be'th as bitter to the tongue, than that which goe'th unseen,

Though be it worn true across thy sleeve.

Secreted solely by thy subtleness of its nature; It remains as ever eclipsed whence glimpsed;

It is naught beside the brilliance to which its' bequeathed.

No other love be'th as bitter to the tongue, than that which goe'th unheard,

Spoken not with a tirade of eloquence to leave Shakespeare in shame; rather, let it be known in the subtle gestures, the nuance of a name.

No other love be'th as bitter to the tongue, than that which goe'th unknown,

Across thy heart 'tis written plain and bold; upon thy sleeve 'tis worn for all to read; this passion that will not leave.

Of thy heart shall be made a sieve; for no other love be'th as bitter to the tongue, than that which love'th alone.