Of my first writings in sweet-scented letters,
I have known through hurtlings of past woe,
Distilled from history pages his same old facade,
That in higher spirits tolls the bell at my door;
...
No first look in the sun that by love you define,
Of such crippled countenance to my sightless view
Have I e'er found worthy of thy perusal
That through tempest beats of my heart's studded feelings arise;
...
Of unchartered depths to my mind still in graceful ease,
Alone but to father her gracious muse at Matilda's farm,
Away from out of sight, my love, in dreary night's cold repose;
This embassage of what I write thee in sweet-scented letters,
...
Some stroke of unnerved blood in vein,
a rupture wild from out of no where
that through studded feelings arise
to a perplexity of interlocked assumptions,
...
The stars are stunn'd to see
the reality of the world,
which you have created:
a grand show
...
When the rhythm of a meter moves afoot,
not more thy feet in my lines count;
but the beats of my heart know,
how oft you drop thy skin-tight garment;
...
The most uncolour'd of all poetry
is the ilk of Muse herself,
that by the grey-matter of my mind
has a drifting dream amiss;
...
Nothing that by love of old-formed memory
To eyes so blind my reckoning days more bright
Than that forfeited dark if from a bowl of stars you drink,
This world of what in thy presence most abounds
...
No, not least in snowflakes of winter cold,
Of furrowed fields her harvest moon to e'er melting snow;
That to my heart's forfeited first at break of day arise,
This world of what I illumine more bright
...
I'll not bother thee again with what I least contend,
that to my reckoning days more bright
of untamed heart's forfeited first,
too, but hurts me to think on thee
...