Augustina to Marchello

My heart's muse knows no language that I speak.
My heart, much to full, beats its wings against 
The cage of an un-schooled tongue. Offensed
Too much, my unfit words do form a weak
   Wall that crumbles into silence, leaving 
   So much unsaid, and I fear, so much not 
   Understood. I can show you only part-
   Pieces, a mirror shard, a shattered thing. 
And yet, I hope most that you may witness
These works I do and know they're not for I.
Look not so much at what I do as why.
I wish to say in good truth naught but this:

Rough are the hands that hue the stones I lay, 
But soft the heart that does "I love you" say.