Why, when push comes to shove, why am I so shy?

And when you walk by,
I feel as though I could fly;
Fly as high as the sky,
The sky so high in the month of July.

You remind me of this thing; love,
The love of your soul as white as a dove;
A dove, I see you as you soar up above,
So far above me that this yearning is all I know of.

Yet I sit here all shy,
So shy, to say I could speak is a lie;
Forget this lie for I will think of a play so sly,
A plan too sly for me as I slowly allow this feeling to die.