if i'm to speak of you at all, or when
there need be nothing less than a prayer
that all men should stop to hear me uttter,
what can I say but what I think of you?
there is a solemn piece of serenity
that drifted itself in colloquium,
perhaps in a surfeit of flattery
that beauty and goodness are truly you.
despite all the raptures that fade in flight,
I can't deny the heavenly abode
from which all manifestations of the
magnificence in your being had come.
if you should ask me what I feel for you,
there isn't anything fitting to say.