Would it not bless you more if these dear words

Might linger in the wandering mists of time,

That whomsoever might yet read this verse

Would feel your essence in each scriven line?

Pray they dwell not upon the pen or hand

That writ these lines, save for sweet passion framed,

For yet in truth, a dullard could command

Some lofty phrase in which their love is named.

In simplest sense some may my ardor note

Perhaps remarking, ‘what so drives this soul

To strive with longing lines and there to dote

Upon this mystic maiden words can’t show?’

Here even doubt proves yet my saving grace

‘Mongst knowing souls who’ve gazed on such a face.