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,
...
Ah, those walks that we had of both
so intricately woven in the aurora of your dream;
and that pathway above the archer's bow,
where oft you sit still watching the skies
...
When all else fades away in the back of my mind,
and nothing that I behold in the unseen world
of your reality, a vertigo of your dream,
remains but a drag of suspended consciousness,
...
Bless'd be thy gracious Muse,
That in thy company a rose!
Full array'd beams of soft gleam,
When the child in sleep brings forth
...