should wrest the rare unwisdom of thy eyes, and if thy hands flowers of silence curled
upon a wish,to rapture should surprise my soul slowly which on thy beauty dreams (proud through the cold perfect night whisperless
to mark,how that asleep whitely she seems
whose lips the whole of life almost do guess)
if god should send the morning;and before my doubting window leaves softly to stir, of thoughtful trees whom night hath pondered o’er —and frailties of dimension to occur
