A Sonnet from the Bosnian, Or: A Study in EBB

Not to love thee were sin and blasphemy,
Yet Love finds me reluctant minister;
For of aught I can in troth deliver,
I find nought that would be happy to thee.
Still writest thou of Love and Poetry,
When knowest thou my worth? but consider:
What faded leaves lie here, yellow, bitter;
Still lurest me thou to thy heav'nly tree?
But I begin to falter, my Heart's weak;
Nor God helps me who wrought me so frail
That, when commencest thy dear Love to speak,
I feel awed and pitiful Love makes me quail.
So, take me, if thou wilt, thy vassal meek,
And teach me sweet Love in loving detail.

--Shyam.