Phoebus, who taught me art divine,
Here tried his hand where I did mine;
And his white fingers in this
Set my Fair's sigh-suggesting grace.
O sweetness past profaning guess,
Grievous with its own exquisiteness!
Vesper-like face, its shadows
With meanings of sequestered light;
Drooped with shamefast
She purely fears eyes cannot miss,
Yet would blush to know she IS.
Ah, who can view with passionless
This tear-compelling countenance!
He has cozened it to
Almost its own miracle.
Yet I, all-viewing though he be,
Methinks saw further here than he;
And,
Master gay! I swear I
Something the better of the two!
