I feel all the pages,
Though sunken with wages,
They stick, they amble, and drag.

Your skin, silver laden,
So draws me, in cadence,
I hope, in your form, time may lag.

I lay thee, the lovely,
And touch-pray the subtlety,
My kissing your spirit in rags.

My fingers pick chordly,
And tone-know you shortly,
Symphonious expanse with no lack.