17.01.2011, 18:29
YOU best discerned of my mind's inward eyes,—
And yet your graces outwardly divine,—
Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies,
Too rich a relic for so poor a shrine ;
You, in whom Nature chose herself to view
When she her own perfection would admire,
Bestowing all her excellence on you,
At whose pure eyes Love lights his hallowed fire ;
Even as a man that in some trance hath seen
More than his wondering utterance can unfold,
That, rapt in spirit, in better worlds hath been,
So must your praise distractedly be told,
Most of all short when I would shew you most,
In your perfections so much am I lost.
And yet your graces outwardly divine,—
Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies,
Too rich a relic for so poor a shrine ;
You, in whom Nature chose herself to view
When she her own perfection would admire,
Bestowing all her excellence on you,
At whose pure eyes Love lights his hallowed fire ;
Even as a man that in some trance hath seen
More than his wondering utterance can unfold,
That, rapt in spirit, in better worlds hath been,
So must your praise distractedly be told,
Most of all short when I would shew you most,
In your perfections so much am I lost.