I know not where you bestow;
Which ghost has passed the row
Of roses in your charms & deeds?
Each posy-as in our Winter-sleeps.

I know not where your atoms stray;
In bright whits of a Summer's day?
Yet in true piety, Heaven made rare,
Every strand of your lovesome hair.

Where do the stars sit, if not found
In those spheres of blue all round?
I do not pretend to know she's there.
She's somehere, but I know not where.