LXIX

I cannot tell what charms my lady finds
In this dull face, huge form and sullen soul;
Nor how my earthy nature keeps control
Over a creature whose mere breath unbinds
May's morning sweetness on the wintry winds.
But while I see the running roses roll
Their clustered wreaths around the rugged bole,
Let me not ask why love, in blessing, blinds.
And since some joy her cheated senses take
In this coarse mould, as far as in me lies
I'll grow more suited to her partial eyes,
Pure if not perfect, more to truth awake;
Less stained with masking sin's too motley dyes;
Be what she thinks me, for her sweet thought's sake.