Doubt Me! My Dim Companion! Why, God, would be content With but a fraction of the Life— Poured thee, without a stint— The whole of me—forever— What more the Woman can, Say quick, that I may dower thee With last Delight I own!
It cannot be my Spirit— For that was thine, before— I ceded all of Dust I knew— What Opulence the more Had I—a freckled Maiden, Whose farthest of Degree, Was—that she might— Some distant Heaven, Dwell timidly, with thee!
Sift her, from Brow to Barefoot! Strain till your last Surmise— Drop, like a Tapestry, away, Before the Fire’s Eyes— Winnow her finest fondness— But hallow just the snow Intact, in Everlasting flake— Oh, Caviler, for you!
