No mortal look to my love have I
That in Hades of a star,
This world of thy most high deserts
Against the wall to my eyes so blind by what I write,
...
I know not that word by name
I call you but Father;
and in a ray of light revealed,
the star of your holy night,
...
Of such sweet absence from the world my love,
needest no witness in thy name to prove thee virtuous,
that outnumbers the hand that writ this embassage;
And by whose worthier pen in winter cold,
...
And that crow's quill to infect the world with critic's eye,
Of solemn strain such mind upon a barbed-wire;
Still looking into the dark side above his head,
Where least I find, my love by thee most abounds,
...
Had I but in my hands the clock that tells time?
I'll count you numbers in my prayer;
More the better, much too stressed-out note
Of e'ery skipped beat in my account,
...
Would that this world be erased
of all eyes,
all vicissitudes of the sky!
that to beauty the star hath rent,
...
Me not so dim-witted that by wise words to profane thee,
Nor can e'er unleash the curtain of thy most high deserts,
That show not my head where thy crown, of worthier pen born,
My mind still shines so bright before the world's eye,
...
The sad account of love that to my mind still
in winter cold, of unsaid words,
a strained note that fell out of hand,
of unnerved blood in vein;
...
Of youth's age-old love that grows e'ermore
Than in time's measured breath I count,
Be of world's infinite blessings;
And beauty's fair face in timeless treasure abound,
...